


When Darkness Falls

by Trevlik65



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:22:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trevlik65/pseuds/Trevlik65
Summary: Now a Musketeer, Athos should be content. He has friends, support of a man he respects and a purpose, but it appears it is not enough. Struggling with his guilt from perceived past crimes and misdemeanours, haunted by feelings for the woman he loves and hates in equal measure - Athos considers putting his ghosts to rest, when once again, his past steps in to stop him.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people. Carl Jung

Prologue  
The night was dark, but here, between the tall narrow buildings, the heat of the day still lingered. Here, where no breeze penetrated to blow away the stench, where filth festered and bubbled beneath the summer sun. The glowing orb which delivered light and hope everywhere else, simply baked and boiled this part of the city like a living hell.  
Athos strode through the darker, seedier part of town. Nobody in their right mind – unless that mind was bent upon ill-doing – would be seen in these dark, suffocating streets. Several people looked his way. His pauldron, so desperately and bravely earned, now blazed like a beacon, declaring quite clearly that he was very much in the wrong part of town. A few weeks ago, nobody would have given him a second glance. As Aesop had said in one of his fables, be careful what you wish for, lest it come true. He might have added changing your life forever – but he had avoided the depressing details of such choices.   
Athos’ reverie was disturbed by a sudden female chuckle, a low throaty voice drifted from a darkened doorway, emanating from a shadowy outline against the candle glow of a filthy cell. ‘Ooh my ’andsome, we don’t get many like you round ’ere. Why don’t you let me cheer you up? You look right miserable.’ Athos looked toward the voice, but whatever the girl saw made her cringe back inside the room, drawing the curtain firmly between them.   
Filth and rags lay upon the slimy cobbles. Whether there was more to them than merely discarded clothing, was anyone’s guess – nobody stopped to check, nobody cared. A bright light suddenly illuminated the narrow passage before the Musketeer. There was a loud roar of laughter and a figure flew from an open doorway, bounced once upon the floor, then lay still in a tangle of limbs. Athos stepped over him and put his arm out against the rough wood, planting his hand firmly in the centre to prevent it from being slammed in his face.  
As he entered the secluded tavern, the heat and smell almost overpowered him; the mixture of unwashed bodies and alcohol was so thick Athos wanted to bat it away with his hand. As he moved into the crowded bar, nobody took much notice; not like in the beginning – their reactions had been markedly different then. The sight of a Musketeer entering the den of thieves had caused a sudden hush amongst the regulars, but now he was just another drunk who sat in the darkness and brooded over his wine until the sun began to rise.  
Athos took his drink to a table at the rear. Two men were already sitting there, but when they saw Athos approach they stood and moved to another table. The swordsman was not even aware he had cast a glower in their direction, but the men had not survived this long without being able to read a rival’s mood; they knew the signs of a man longing for a good excuse to fight, and moving was definitely the better option.  
Here in the dim recess of the inn, Athos shut out the noise and laughter, as he downed his tumbler in one go and poured another. Placing it upon the table he stared at the dark liquid. The rich aroma of vinegar wine assaulted his nostrils – it was almost undrinkable, but after a couple of bottles he would no longer care.   
As he stared confusedly into the empty cup, he tried to remember when he had drained it, but as he noted the two bottles upon the table, and a third in his hand, he realised he couldn’t remember them either. It was what he did remember that bothered him the most, and somehow no amount of wine could change that; it just lessened the pain a little, but then the guilt flowed through him and he was back where he had begun – in purgatory.  
He tried to shift the fog from his brain and remember why he was here. He was a Musketeer, the King had granted him his commission, and Louis had personally thanked him, in front of a full court, for his services to France. Treville had pinned the pauldron upon Athos’ shoulder himself, as proud as any father would have been, and Aramis and Porthos could not have grinned any wider if they had tried. So why was he so miserable? Why was he not content with his lot? Could he not settle and put the past behind him, or was his future as much to blame?  
The truth was, he was mired in the past, shackled to a former life he could not escape. Had he seriously believed that a commission in the regiment would somehow fill the cold void inside his soul and provide his life with a new meaning? If he had, then no wonder he was miserable. He had been a fool – his commission felt like a millstone around his neck. Perhaps his father had been right; perhaps he was a coward, afraid to lead his people, afraid to serve his King. Perhaps he should have remained a drunken sword for hire, no obligation, without commitment or expectation.  
He should have moved on by now, should be concentrating on working with the men who mistakenly thought he was a man worth believing in, men who relied upon his opinion and company. Men he loathed to disappoint.  
Yet every night for the last few weeks, he had turned that moment over in his mind again and again. It was like a recurring nightmare; no matter what he was doing, or what he was thinking about, it pushed its way between his thoughts like a self-centred, persistent child. When he heard the words, he felt the physical pain, felt the parting as keenly as any blade, and just as he had done that night, he did nothing.   
Athos had been there before and he had survived, but he had never thought to endure it a second time; never expected to experience the ultimate destruction of his heart, watching as it was torn, still beating, from his chest, withering before his very eyes. But he had, and now he was that man once more. But this time there was no miracle to raise him from the depths of his own depravity – in fact that miracle was back at the garrison, probably blaspheming his name.   
Still those damn words endured, endlessly echoing in his tortured mind, whether awake or otherwise.  
...You do know I...  
I what? I hate you? I will never return? I wish I had never met you? She could have meant to say any of those things, but he knew what she had tried to say, just as he knew why she would not utter the words, not ever again. But he could still hear them inside his head, he could still see her lips moving and feel her breath against his ear. He had heard the words even though she had been silent. You do know I love you.  
He was trapped in a perpetual loop; he had had but one chance to break the spell he was under. He had tried, had done what he thought he had wanted, had needed to absolve himself of his sins – but it had not been enough. In the end, he was what he was, a failure, a failed brother, husband, son, and finally friend – they just did not realise it yet.  
He poured another glass and closed his eyes as he hovered ever closer toward oblivion, completely unaware of beady eyes watching him drain every drop.


	2. No Time for God

When Darkness Falls – Chapter One  
Aramis shuffled beneath the already warm sun. The day promised to be the same as the days preceding it, hot and airless, but that, however, was not the reason for the marksman’s discomfort.   
‘Have you seen him?’ he whispered out of the side of his mouth.  
Porthos stared straight ahead and mumbled his reply. ‘Nope, ’e did it again. Sometimes I think ’e’s in league with the devil, the way ’e gives us the slip like that.’  
‘If he is late this morning Treville will have him flayed alive.’ Aramis looked hopefully toward the gate of the garrison, desperate to see Athos striding through the pillars, glowering at anyone who dared glance in his direction, but the opening and the square beyond remained empty. Athos had not been in his room when Aramis had passed this morning, but he had reason to know the swordsman had arrived back in the early hours – in what condition he could only guess.  
‘Where’s Treville? ’E’s never late.’ Porthos growled.  
‘I suspect he is giving Athos time to show his face, but he will not wait much longer.’ As he finished speaking there was a disturbance upon the balcony above and the door to the Captain’s office opened. So intent were they upon Treville’s emergence, the two men failed to note the flurry of activity at the back of the lines. It was the furious expression upon their Captain’s face, and the way he stared at some point beyond them, that alerted the two friends to the subject of his wrath. Though both men were desperate to confirm their suspicions, they dared not turn to determine the target of his ire.  
Without giving voice to his anger, Treville gave out the day’s roster, and it was not until they heard the name amongst the daily chores that they knew for sure the late Musketeer had arrived.  
‘Athos! There is a message to be collected from the Church of Our Lady on the outskirts of the city. Leave now and be back by noon... no later! Go alone.’  
‘Wot’s ’e up to, sending ’im off on his own like that?’ Porthos asked, his face lined with confusion.  
‘I am not sure I want to know,’ the marksman replied warily.  
The two men were about to follow when an angry voice bellowed from above. ‘You two, my office, now.’ It was not the first time – and both men doubted it would be the last – that Treville had issued such a summons, but at least they usually had some idea of what misdemeanour they needed to talk their way out of. When the object of his anger was Athos, they had to pick their way in the dark.  
The man in question was currently riding out of the garrison, grateful to have avoided Aramis’ accusing disappointment, complicated by Porthos’ anger. All he had to do was stay on his horse and be back by noon, how difficult could that be?  
‘Come!’ The loud summons made the two Musketeers’ hearts sink. One by one they entered the office. Depending upon the Captain’s demeanour, they could usually tell how the meeting would go; if he was working and ignored them, it was not good, if he gestured for them to sit then that was better. But if, like now, he was leaning on his desk glaring at them both, it was dire.  
‘What is going on? I have given him time, but it has been months and he is getting worse not better. I cannot keep turning a blind eye, men like Deveaux have noticed and that is bad for the regiment. So talk, and do not try to distract or prevaricate.’  
The two men risked a glance at one another, then Aramis sighed and began to talk.  
‘To be honest, Captain, we do not know what the problem is. Athos has clammed up completely; he goes through the motions of everyday life, but it is as if part of him is not present. He is not sleeping, so to be fair to the man, I do not know how he is standing. I know for a fact he has not slept for at least three days.’   
‘How do you know that?’ Porthos asked angrily.  
Aramis shrugged. ‘After he gives us the slip I sleep and wake early. Usually he does not get home until the early hours, so it has been easy for me to listen outside his door, he is... tormented – that is the only word to explain what goes on within. He has nightmares bought on by the horror of the tunnel, but what else haunts his dreams is not for me to say.’ He stopped and looked at Treville, his dark eyes registering the helplessness he felt. ‘I do not know how to help him.’  
‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped.’ Porthos ground his teeth as he muttered the remark.  
Treville ran his hand through his hair; he had no idea what to suggest. ‘Is she the problem?’ there was no need to mention names, they all knew who she was. Porthos snorted. He had never liked Milady, and even after she had saved Athos’ life, he had still refused to alter his opinion.  
Aramis had tried to treat the woman fairly, but he, too, found her behaviour toward Athos left a bad taste in his mouth. However, it was not their opinion that counted. Athos and Milady de Winter had a complex relationship; it was obvious how they felt about one another, but there was a much hate as love in the mix, and their feelings swung from one to the other with no middle ground to make things easier. Since she had left and gone to England Athos had struggled, but the subject was very much out of bounds.  
‘The Cadets love working with ’im, the men respect ’im, and ’e does his job, Captain,’ Porthos offered. ‘As Aramis says, I’m not sure how, especially if he is drinking most of the night and then not sleeping. Oh, and I’ve not seen him do anything but pick at his food for days.’ Aramis shot Porthos a look of annoyance and the big man shifted from one foot to the other as the Captain scowled.  
‘You could have said before I sent him off on his own,’ Treville snapped. Then, reading the confusion on the two men’s faces, he sighed. ‘Yes, I know, I did not ask, and you would not have volunteered the information had I not. What are we to do? I thought getting a commission would settle him down, but it is as if it has made matters worse.’  
He looked from Aramis to Porthos, hoping for an answer to his question, but all he saw were his own concerns staring back at him.  
‘Should I speak to him?’ Treville asked. His shoulders had relaxed, and his anger appeared to have dissipated – though it could just as easily have been interpreted as defeat.  
Aramis gave the matter some thought. ‘He respects you, Captain, but I am not sure he is in the right frame of mind; he may just bolt if he feels he is being cornered. Let us deal with him. If we cannot, we will ask for your help.’ Treville did not look happy, but he nodded.  
‘See that you do, I want no more late arrivals – he may not be drunk, but he smells like the taverns he frequents. As I said, Deveaux is enjoying his misery and is just biding his time to make trouble. If he calls my bluff I will have no choice but to punish Athos, if I am to maintain the respect of the regiment.’ Porthos made a noise that could have been interpreted as insolence, but Aramis talked over it.  
‘We understand, Captain. We will do all we can, believe me.’ But he sounded far more confident than he felt.  
Treville sat and began moving paper around on his desk. The meeting was over, though no man in the room felt as though anything had been resolved. The mood was brittle and the two Musketeers left the room under a very dark cloud, partly formed by their own fears and frustrations.  
ooOoo  
The day was humid, and the storm that had threatened to break in the night had not yet fulfilled its promise. The sky was a strange yellow and the air was so still even the birds had fallen silent. When it eventually broke it was going to be both relieving and destructive.   
Athos rode through the streets of Paris as the morning grew increasingly stifling. He remained vigilant, though the pounding in his head was not helping the accuracy of his vision. His mouth was dry, and every tavern that he passed seemed like a siren’s call, promising a salve to his dry, rough throat. The more establishments Athos ignored, the deeper his scowl grew. He wasted no time evaluating his mood, so the question whether his displeasure was due to his discomfort, or whether it was the battle between the swordsman and his demons, remained unresolved.  
By the time the Church of Our Lady came close enough to be discernible from the over-arching buildings, Athos’ mood had deteriorated, and his demeanour had reached downright terrifying.  
He approached the wooden door of the church, and as usual felt the thrumming of anger that burst in his veins whenever he was forced to acknowledge God, or those associated with him. As far as the Musketeer was concerned, religion was a fantasy, a mythical crutch for the lost and desperate. Either he had no need of such a support, or God just did not care, having already abandoned him early in life as a lost cause. In his darkest moments, he was inclined to believe strongly in the latter. He almost envied men like Aramis who fell back on God’s plan whenever life displayed man’s worst tendencies towards his fellow man.  
Athos had no time for God, and that was the end of it. However, his upbringing demanded he show respect for those within the confines of the edifice towering above him, and duty to the regiment ensured any cynicism was held in check.  
He took in the cool air within the darkened interior, and had the building existed for any other reason he would have found a measure of solace within its walls. The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Aramis, of course, would have found a far deeper meaning behind the swordsman’s calm upon entering the house of God.  
As Athos stood there drinking in the solitude, an elderly man approached from a side chapel. Like all men of the church, he wore that quiet smile that suggested he was in on some divine secret that only the initiated could comprehend –the swordsman personally considered the look to be condescendingly smug.  
‘Good morning, my son.’ Athos turned to face the voice and dipped his head in silent acknowledgment of the greeting. ‘You are the Musketeer sent to collect our missive for the King.’ The sentence was a statement, not a question, and its inflection made Athos sense something was not quite right.  
‘I am Athos, at your service.’ Despite the offer, the tone of his delivery made it sound highly unlikely. It was not unusual for men of the King’s regiment to come from the nobility, but Athos had an added hauteur which often made him sound more aloof than the King himself. However much he hated his former life it was ingrained in his very bones, and anger simply exacerbated the traits, no matter how hard he tried to suppress his birthright.  
The priest tilted his head slightly and pursed his lips, as if seeing all of Athos’ hidden resentments imprinted upon his handsome, if rather stern features.   
‘Come, Monsieur Athos, the day is warm, take some refreshment whilst the parchment is prepared.’ Athos hesitated for a second. He had no desire to linger within the cold, silent confines of the church amongst the lingering, sickly-sweet smell of incense – the cloying scent seemed to cling to the very stonework of the building. Furthermore, he was extremely thirsty, and the offer of a cool beverage was too good to refuse. In consequence, Athos followed the tall figure through a low stone doorway and emerged into a tranquil courtyard.   
The priest gestured for Athos to sit; the stone table and bench was positioned in the shade, and a small fountain bubbled discreetly nearby. Monks from the attached presbytery scurried here and there, as Athos watched. He was inherently suspicious of these pious men, who had few troubles in life yet always seemed to be in a terrible hurry as though they were privy to some awful future event, and they alone were planning to be prepared, like Noah and his ark, ready to weather the storm.   
No one raised their head or caught his eye as he made his observations, his attention only broken when a young novitiate poured ale into a cup. Athos nodded in thanks and drained the cup almost instantly; replacing it, empty, upon the table before the wide-eyed young man had finished pouring for the priest.   
‘Another for our guest, Brother Matthew. The streets of our city are indeed dry on such a day as this.’ Athos forced himself to leave the cup untouched upon the table, rather than snatching it and downing the cold liquid within, as he had before. The priest eyed him carefully and supped his own ale in silence.  
‘The ale is good is it not? The brothers brew it themselves.’ The two men supped their drink in the cool shade of the courtyard for a moment or two, before the priest spoke once more.  
‘You are not comfortable within these walls, Monsieur Athos?’ His tone was somewhere between amused and disappointed. Athos took a long drink from his cup, then replaced it before him on the table whilst contemplating the old man’s observation.  
‘I have been given a job with instructions to be swift. It is nothing personal, I simply wish to be on my way.’ The excuse was delivered with Athos’ usual aplomb, no inflexion in his voice as to his true feelings either way. Athos drank from his cup, though those green eyes remained steady and watchful as the priest unashamedly studied the Musketeer.   
‘The letter is on its way. Do not worry, we will not create any intentional delay.’ After a short pause, he added, ‘You do not strike me as a soldier, Monsieur Athos. Have you been a Musketeer long?’   
Something set off Athos’ warning signals. His senses, already wary in such surroundings, now shot to high alert, and it was all he could do to remain sitting and not draw a weapon, though the stiffening of his spine told of his discomfort.  
‘Forgive me, I did not mean to pry. So many men of the nobility seek glory with a sword, yet I do not sense it is glory that you seek.’ He looked saddened and almost irritated, as the young monk returned with a leather tube encasing a scroll.  
‘Ah, your letter.’ The priest indicated that Brother Matthew should hand over the scroll to Athos, and as the Musketeer rose, the nervous monk scurried away.  
‘I thank you for the refreshment, Father. Now, if you have no further instruction, I will be on my way.’ The swordsman turned to leave, one hand holding the tube, the other on the hilt of his sword.  
‘Do not be angry at God, Athos, he merely made us in his likeness – how we choose to conduct our lives is our own doing. He is simply there to support us when we make the wrong choices.’ The melancholy voice hit the Musketeer like a bullet.  
Athos stilled, the priest’s words like ice to the fire in his blood. Turning slowly, he faced the priest.  
‘And what of the victims? What of those innocents who suffer from those poor choices?’ The words were spoken in a hushed tone, but one that carried more menace than the loudest battle cry.  
The priest held Athos’ gaze and slowly shook his head. ‘Innocents? Who is truly innocent? Does a suckling babe not manipulate its mother to satisfy its own desires? Do not take on the burden of the choices of others; when he reaches the gates of heaven, each person will be judged for his actions and his alone.’   
Athos stood still. ‘Then I am already damned.’ And with that, he turned abruptly and strode away. If the priest said anything else, Athos could not hear it. He could hear nothing over the deafening scream inside his head.  
Outside, the bright sunlight seemed more painful than ever, the crowds louder and busier than normal. Athos pulled his hat down to shield his eyes as he mounted Roger. At least the cold ale and the respite in the shade had diminished his headache to a dull murmur. He turned his mount back toward the garrison, grateful for the unstoppable rising of the sun, as it overruled his desire to stop on his way home and seek solace where he knew he should not.  
The priest stood in the cool interior of the church and watched the Musketeer leave.   
‘That is a very angry young man,’ he stated, solemnly shaking his head. The person to whom he addressed the comment chose to remain in the shadows, but his voice carried easily in the silent building, the retort so filled with hatred it was like a physical presence in the dark.  
‘Not half as angry as I!’


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two  
Porthos and Aramis had spent the last couple of hours working with the cadets. The young men were ready to take up their full role as Musketeers in the next week or two, and very soon a new batch of raw recruits would arrive.  
They sat at their regular table, attempting to formulate a plan of action.  
‘Talk to ’im,’ Porthos coaxed, his tone as innocent as he could make it. Aramis’ eyes widened in response.  
‘Talk to him? What do you suggest I say? Good afternoon, Athos, the Captain will be relieved you did not break your neck falling from your horse, or were not delayed by downing a bottle of wine on your return journey.’ He arched his brows in askance and the big Musketeer scowled.  
‘But ’e talks to you, ’e won’t tell me anythin’.’ There was no recrimination in the statement, as it was well known that Aramis was regarded as a good listener. He was a man of God, and tried not to judge those who chose to unburden themselves to him; as opposed to Porthos who was slightly too honest for his own good.  
‘I am not sure he wants to talk,’ Aramis stated.  
‘Hmph, ’e doesn’t know what ’e wants. Let’s face it, ’e rarely recognises what’s in ’is own self- interest,’ Porthos added. Aramis nodded in agreement, just as the sound of a cantering horse heralded the approach of a rider. Both men turned to look. It was late morning, but not yet noon, and it appeared Athos had taken Treville at his word.  
Silently he acknowledged his friends with a nod, before taking the steps up to the Captain’s office. Though Athos had not slowed his pace, Aramis could not help but feel there was a reluctance to the thud of his booted feet.  
Athos raised his hand to knock the door, but it flew open before he had the chance.  
Athos took a step back as a man slid past him, a look of trepidation upon his face when he noted Athos’ expression. By his mode of dress, the swordsman deduced he had come from the palace, either with news, or a summons to an audience with the King.   
He knocked, and noting the Captain pulling on his uniform tunic, Athos decided it had obviously been the latter. Before he could speak, Treville looked up and saved him the bother, appearing relived to see him. ‘Good, I hoped that was you arriving. You are early, you have the missive?’ Athos kept his expression blank.  
‘You made it clear you wanted me to return before midday, and yes, I have it.’   
Treville did not let the provoking comment rile him. Instead he looked Athos in the eye and said, ‘Good, the King wants us.’ Treville strode past the Musketeer, through the door, and the swordsman followed.  
‘Us?’ he asked, dryly.  
‘Us!’ Treville barked. Athos said no more, but when he saw the questioning expressions of the two men awaiting him, he merely shrugged his shoulders.  
The stable boy was standing holding Roger and Treville’s bay ready. The Captain must have sent a message via the King’s courier, as Athos’ horse should have been divested of his saddle and partaking of a nice rub down by now.  
He patted the large black stallion as it pawed the ground in recognition.  
‘Sorry boy, no rest for the wicked.’   
Once they were riding through the busy streets, Athos dared a question. ‘Why us? Or was it simply the messenger the king requested?’ He kept his voice neutral, though he preferred knowing what he was walking into where the palace was concerned.  
Whilst his guard had been lowered on their recent mission, as he had watched his life expectancy grow shorter by the hour, Athos had confessed his identity to the King – a decision now he regretted every minute of every day.  
Louis had vowed to keep the secret, but the King’s moods were famously mercurial, and who knew what small matter or remark would make him share that secret like a sly child?  
Treville paused before answering. ‘He asked that you collect the message and now he wants us to bring it to him.’ The Captain kept his eyes up ahead, a sure sign that some guilt or annoyance kept him from holding Athos’ gaze.  
The swordsman remained silent – he suspected Treville knew no more than he did. He realised the Captain had been aware of his nightly activities, but apart from one late arrival, he had worked as requested and fulfilled all demands made of him. But Athos was anything but a fool; he knew Treville was disappointed in him, and that burden sat heavy upon his heart – just another layer of guilt to add to the others he had accumulated.  
Athos was not a man who suffered flights of fancy – he dealt with logic and strategy – life had shown him that emotion and passion bought only pain. That being said, as they rode through the early afternoon crowd, he had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He allowed himself to scan the crowd, keeping his perusal as casual as possible. He saw no familiar face or shape, nor any suspicious observer following them. There was a time when he had seen her face in the crowd, any crowd; dark hair, billowing cloak, just something to elicit an old painful memory. He had moved beyond that, or so he told himself. She was in England, no longer a threat to his heart – only his sanity.  
However, the truth was, that even if he had seen the pair of dark, beady eyes that watched him from the shadows, he would not have recognised the face he had last seen through a drunken haze.   
As the two Musketeers rode by, the watchful eyes narrowed, and their owner slunk back into the crowd, heading for a rendezvous he hoped would prove lucrative.  
Both men dismounted, and without further conversation strode shoulder to shoulder along the elegant corridors. As they reached the double doors to the throne room, Athos’ breath hitched, just as it had done every time since their return from the ill-fated King’s tour. Would this be the day Louis would lay his past bare for all to see? Would he forget himself and use Athos’ real title?  
Louis was in deep conversation with the Cardinal, whilst on his other side stood a young man, obviously not a member of the household staff judging by the arrogant way he regarded Treville before summarily dismissing him as unimportant. The stranger moved on to Athos and something flickered across his haughty features, but it was too fleeting to put a name to. Still, his eyes narrowed and he glared at the swordsman with more than the passing interest he had given the Musketeer Captain.  
Upon their entry, Louis turned and gave them a broad grin. ‘Ah, Captain, it is good to see you, and you, Athos.’  
‘Sire.’ Athos bowed.  
Richelieu had watched the King acknowledge the Musketeer and, like a cat in a dovecot, he had sat back and observed his prey. Now the Cardinal turned and smiled, a most unsettling sight; it was not a natural expression for the man and Athos was instantly on his guard.   
‘Captain,’ Louis began, ‘I require you to do something for me. This is Reynard Du Bois, he is the son of an old friend of the Cardinal’s and I want you to take him under your wing.’ He grinned broadly, like a child who thinks they have had an excellent idea.  
For a moment there was total silence. Richelieu stopped smiling, but his eyes were alive with mischief as he watched the Musketeer Captain struggle to find the right words.  
Athos appraised the young man. He was perhaps nineteen or twenty, but the sneer on his face made him appear older. His jaw clenched as he observed the young noble smirk at Treville’s dilemma. Du Bois was obviously conscious that the outcome was a foregone conclusion. In reality the Captain had no choice in the matter.  
Treville finally found his voice.  
‘Sire, the new cadets will begin at the end of the month, may I ask what experience…’ he paused, ‘... Monsieur Reynard possesses?’ He looked toward the young man and Louis nodded for him to answer the Captain’s question.  
‘I was destined for the army, Captain, but my father has a fancy for the King’s elite regiment. I am highly skilled with a sword, unbeaten in fact.’ Once again he looked at Athos. There was no hint of respect, or interest in the swordsman’s reputation, though it was no secret that the man was rapidly becoming a legend within the regiment.  
It was the Cardinal who spoke up, saving Treville from commenting on what was rapidly becoming an awkward conversation.  
‘Monsieur DuBois will be an asset to the regiment. I am sure he will keep your swordmaster busy.’ He smirked at Athos, watching his reaction like a hawk. However, Athos was the master in stoicism and gave no outward response at all to the First Minister’s slight.   
‘Athos is a Musketeer, and the finest swordsman in the regiment. Monsieur DuBois will do well to learn from him,’ Treville countered.  
The Captain was not happy. Though it was not unusual for a nobleman to purchase a commission for a younger or recalcitrant son, there was something about this that made him wary. For one thing, he doubted the Cardinal had any friends, let alone old ones. If you had known Richelieu for more than a year, then you were probably useless or dead.  
‘So that is settled,’ Louis clapped his hands. ‘Monsieur DuBois will join you at the end of the week.’ Anticipating Treville’s next comment, he added, ‘No point waiting until the end of the month when he is so eager. I am sure you can put him to use.’ Again, Louis smiled that broad, innocent grin – it might even have been endearing it if it did not regularly follow or precede some highly unreasonable or idiotic comment.  
Treville sighed. There seemed little point arguing when he knew the matter had in reality been decided before his arrival. He took the package that Athos was holding and held it out to the King. ‘Your communication from the Church of our Lady, Sire.’ Louis appeared slightly confused, then looked toward Richelieu.   
‘I believe it is for the Cardinal,’ he replied, and he gestured for Treville to pass the scroll to the First Minister.   
‘Thank you.’ Richelieu took the package and addressed Athos.  
‘You encountered no problems on your journey, Monsieur Athos?’ The swordsman looked the First Minister in the eye; the question was out of character. The Cardinal never acknowledged the Musketeers, let alone addressed them by name – if he even knew it.  
‘None, Minister, the task went smoothly.’ Richelieu gave a quick grin then frowned. ‘I met an old friend the other day who thought he knew you, he was from Benoir. Are you from that area Athos?’   
Athos froze. He waited for the King to mention Pinot but he made no sound. Despite the thumping of his heart Athos managed to reply with as little interest as he could muster.  
‘I am afraid I do not know of such a place, Cardinal, he must have been mistaken.’ Athos offered no further information, but the two men’s gaze held, neither breaking contact. Richelieu blinked first, a false smile upon his lips, and he steeped his fingers together.   
‘No matter, I suppose one Musketeer looks very much like another.’ Treville glanced from Athos to the Cardinal, then to the future recruit; he, too, observed Athos a little too closely for the Captain’s liking.   
Something was wrong, but Treville simply did now know what.  
‘Sire, if that is all?’ the Captain asked. The King had been hanging upon every word of the exchange, and if his fascinated stare lingered slightly too long upon Athos, he did not make it obvious.  
‘Of course. Captain, Athos, I bid you good day.’ With that, he rose from his chair and walked purposefully from the room.  
Treville nodded to Athos and together they turned toward the grand double doors. Once they were in the corridor, away from prying eyes, Treville turned to Athos. ‘What was that all about?’   
Athos scowled. ‘I have no idea.’  
Treville eyed the Musketeer closely. ‘Is there something I should know Athos? If so, tell me now.’ He waited for Athos to answer, but if truth be told, he realised he would not have known if Athos was lying to him or not, so closed was the man’s expression.  
‘Well I do not like it,’ the Captain added. ‘Why would the Cardinal ask such a thing?’  
‘Because he was fishing,’ Athos concluded as though he was deep in thought.  
‘He has never liked you, Athos, you threaten him. You show neither fear nor respect, and he senses you are not what you seem. You must learn not to antagonise him. Plus, we have no idea what Milady told him.’  
Athos turned to face the Captain. ‘She told him nothing.’ His voice was low but firm.  
Treville watched him out of the corner of his eye. ‘Because she wished to protect you?’  
Athos gave the slightest sigh. ‘Because she wished to protect herself.’  
Treville snorted and shook his head. ‘Well, she created enough of a mystery to pique Richelieu’s interest, and until he has the full story you need to watch your back… again!’ He ran his hand through his hair, and Athos would have grinned at the Captain’s familiar gesture of frustration had he not found Treville’s remark too accurate an assessment.  
Treville rode on in silence, a situation he was normally perfectly comfortable with, but not today. Today there was so much that lay unspoken, and the older man knew this was a perfect opportunity to talk to his morose Musketeer, but somehow he was afraid to hear what Athos had to say. For the first time in his life, Treville felt like a coward – and it did not sit well with the veteran soldier.  
They rode through the gates of the garrison and Treville slid from his horse. He turned to speak to Athos, but saw that the man was already leading Roger into the stable, back straight and walking with purpose. Treville shook his head, and instead walked toward his office. He had much to do and Athos was old enough to look out for himself.  
It was lunchtime and Athos knew he would find Porthos in the canteen, and where Porthos was, Aramis was sure to be close by. So, despite having no desire to eat, he headed toward the low building that housed the Musketeers’ rest room and kitchens.  
As he paused in the doorway attempting to locate the two Musketeers, a voice broke into his reverie. ‘Well, look who it ain’t! Thought you were dead.’ Athos turned with a cold stare to acknowledge the man who had spoken, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, indicating he was not in the least offended by the remark.  
‘Serge.’ It was all he said, but the old man ladling food into bowls for the hungry men merely snorted and looked away, though he, too, had a twinkle in his eye.  
‘I should be offended, yer never eat my food. But then I know you ain’t eatin’ anybody else’s either, are yer? Skin and bone, that’s what yer look like.’ Serge narrowed his eyes, but he did not expect an answer.  
Athos gave him a lopsided grin and shrugged his shoulders, turning away toward his quarry seated at the back of the room.  
Porthos looked up from his bowl of stew. ‘So his lordship has deigned to dine with us at last!’ He noted Athos stiffen and felt the sharp blow to his leg beneath the table, instantly regretting his jest. Though it was a joke he had used many times, now that Athos’ background was known to them, it no longer held any amusement – just the opposite in fact.  
Porthos, of course, habitually trod where angels would have shuddered to follow, but that was part of his charm – or idiocy, depending how one looked at it.  
‘So how was the palace? You are still standing, so obviously they did not want to arrest you or behead you.’ Aramis smiled brightly, hoping he could overshadow Porthos’ ill-considered greeting.  
Athos’ shoulders relaxed slightly. He knew they had many questions, questions they had every right to ask, but which he had no intention of answering. Discussing the events of the palace was an acceptable alternative.  
‘It was interesting.’ He sat at the table and poured himself a glass of wine from the bottle in the middle, aware of two pairs of eyes watching the manoeuvre. He looked up and realised it was not his actions that held their fascination, but their anticipation over the details of his meeting with Louis.  
‘Pray continue, we are agog,’ Aramis grinned, partly delighted his friend was talking at all.  
Athos quirked his brow and sipped from his cup, his expression becoming more thoughtful.  
‘Treville was asked to take on a new recruit, the son of an old friend of the Cardinal’s.’ He glanced at the two men, anticipating a response.  
‘Really, ’e ’as friends?’ Porthos remarked, looking incredulous.  
‘Mm, that was my first thought,’ Athos smirked. ‘Then Richelieu mentioned another old friend who thought he knew me from somewhere called Benoir. He asked if that was where I was from.’ This time the two men sat open-mouthed.  
‘He addressed you directly?’ Aramis queried.  
‘Indeed,’ was the swordsman’s only reply.  
‘It was obviously a lie,’ Porthos stated simply. ‘I find one old friend ’ard to swallow, but two… not possible.’ He was emphatic, and there was no humour in his voice, he was deadly serious.  
Aramis sat deep in thought. ‘Where did you go this morning?’ Athos almost smiled, it would appear the marksman was thinking along similar lines to himself.  
‘To the Church of Our Lady on the outskirts of Paris. I collected a missive for the Cardinal, and some unsolicited preaching.’ He scowled at the thought of the priest’s attentions.  
‘Why did Treville send you in particular?’ Aramis persisted.  
‘Apparently, I was specifically asked for. Whether by the King, the Cardinal, or simply in the note he did not say.’ He looked to the two men, and neither appeared pleased with his answer.  
‘Did you see anyone, or did anyone strike you as out of place?’ Aramis frowned.  
‘The only one out of place was me. But yes, there was something not quite right about the whole morning.’ Aramis and Porthos looked alarmed – if Athos was voicing doubts, then something was very much amiss.  
‘Do you think he knows?’ Porthos asked, looking around suspiciously as though Richelieu was about to spring out from behind a seated Musketeer.  
Athos shook his head, ‘I would have said no, but he was incredibly smug, and the recruit….’ He drifted off for a second, as though recalling some distant memory.  
‘What about him?’ Aramis persisted.  
Athos furrowed his brow as if trying to remember something. ‘I do not know, just something about him was familiar, but I had never seen him before. He was arrogant, but you will soon discover that for yourselves, as he joins the garrison at the end of the week.’ He noted their surprise.  
‘What? Treville did not make ’im wait to start with the others?’ Porthos queried.  
‘No.’ The word carried a wealth of meaning, and all three men sat and considered the new turn of events.  
‘She could have told him,’ Porthos stated, despite the warning look from Aramis.  
Athos rolled his eyes at the repeated supposition. ‘I think it is highly unlikely, and neither do I believe the King has reneged upon his promise, he would never have been able to hide his guilt so easily.’  
The two men still had so many questions about Athos’ background, but the man had only told them what he thought they needed to know, and even that was under duress. Once they had returned from the debacle of the King’s tour, and no sooner had Athos been well enough to talk at length, the interrogation had started.  
‘So are you going to explain?’ Aramis asked, perching on Athos’ bed just after their arrival back at the garrison. Athos had refused to enter the infirmary, and instead had been attended by Aramis and Porthos in his own room.  
‘What exactly am I supposed to explain?’ the swordsman had drawled, though he had been expecting this for several days.  
‘Oh, I dunno, how many secrets do you ’ave?’ Porthos asked, towering over his injured friend.  
Athos was not sure how to answer that question, but he knew he was not going to get away with telling them nothing, not anymore.  
‘Perhaps his lordship does not wish to associate with the lower orders,’ Aramis suggested to Porthos.  
‘You’re probably right, we really should ’ave known. The snotty remarks, his noble bearing,’ Porthos added, his face completely serious.  
‘Indeed, his voice alone should have been proof, and then his stylish attire...’  
‘Enough!’ Athos growled, his cold stare enough to turn them both to stone. ‘I will tell you what you need to know, then we will never mention it again. Is that clear?’  
And to date they never had. His morose mood and deteriorating humour had made it more than clear that it was a completely closed subject, but now might be the time for a little gentle probing.  
‘Athos, I understand your reticence to discuss your past, and we do not wish to open old wounds or pry, but is there anything that Richelieu could hold against you, anything that he could harm you with?’  
Athos’ face became an emotionless mask. ‘No.’ The answer was emphatic, leaving no room for further enquiry.  
‘Richelieu don’t need anything, ’e won’t understand why a noble would give up everything ’e ’ad to become a Musketeer. ’E will be convinced there is more dirt to dig up and ’e won’t stop until ’e’s sure ’e’s found it all.’ His words rang true; a man like the Cardinal could never comprehend why a man who held wealth and power would give it all up to live the life of a soldier. He would be confident there was some crime or lie that was being covered up, that Athos was running from something.  
Both men hoped Athos was telling the truth and the First Minister was wrong – that Athos had run from nothing worse than a barrel-load of guilt and a broken heart.  
er Two


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

The man walked up and down the sumptuous room, booted feet thudding upon the marble floor, his face lined with concern.

'I should not be seen here,' he complained.

'Why ever not?' the Cardinal asked, his manner irritated. 'You are an old friend, you are not known at court, so I doubt anyone will be interested.' The Cardinal's scathing tone was not lost upon the visitor, but he knew better than to argue – he needed the man's assistance, it was as simple as that.

'Whatever you say. What news have you? Is everything going as planned?' The man looked harassed; he should have hidden his anxiety better. Once again Richelieu smiled, he knew he had the upper hand, and that was the kiss of death to most who embarked on any form of intrigue with the First Minister.

With his cat-like sneer, the Cardinal spoke again. 'All is well, Monsieur. I suggest you retire to the country and leave everything else up to me. As you say, it is best you stay out of Paris.' The other man paused in his pacing and grunted.

'If you think that would be for the best.' He tried to sound casual, but his relief was palpable. 'Well, if you require no further involvement from me, I will indeed remove to Benoir. You know where to find me if you have further need of me.' He bowed low and left the room as if he were being chased by the hounds of hell.

'Indeed I do, Monsieur, indeed I do,' Richelieu muttered to himself, smug and satisfied with the outcome of the conversation.

Richelieu watched the man leave the room, though so uninterested was he in the landowner's troubles that he hardly noticed his absence. If he had not had a personal interest, he would simply have dismissed the man in an instant, no matter how old their acquaintance had been. As it was, he had needed to dredge his memory to remember the man at all; the days when they had talked together of their futures and hopes had been eons ago. Those days, and those men no longer existed, and the First Minister had no desire to remember them.

To think that on any other day he may have turned him away. Fate must indeed have been smiling upon him when curiosity had encouraged him to agree to an audience with the Baron.

However, the tale he had told had been a fascinating one and, despite the Cardinal's feigned boredom, he had been transfixed by the story of one man's weakness towards a women, betrayal, and murder. It answered so many questions, though it introduced many others – but what was he to do with the information?

There was, of course, the possibility that Brousard was wrong, but Richelieu knew too many pieces of the story that the cash-strapped landowner did not. Still, whatever happened, having the man's son on the inside of the Garrison could be very useful, and he may even be able to kill two birds with one stone.

As he glided around the large, empty room, his thoughts were interrupted by a sultry voice.

'You look worried. Can I be of any assistance?' It was obvious from her inflection just what assistance the woman was offering.

Richelieu turned his attention to the figure emerging from the doorway. The man was able to change his disposition in an instant, though just how genuine that change of mood was, who could tell.

'My dear, how delightful, I must say I was not expecting to see you here. I thought we had agreed this was not a suitable meeting place.' Though he maintained a fixed smile the words were ground out of a rigid jaw, the speaker obviously trying to hide his evident irritation.

The woman gave a small moue and moved closer.

The Cardinal watched her as she sashayed toward him, remembering the last woman to slip in and out of this room. Though they had traits in common, this woman was not Milady de Winter. How far she would go to make herself useful he had not yet decided, but time would tell. She had been hopping mad when Milady had fled to England, would she be inclined to join with him now to bring down the holier than though Captain and his arrogant Musketeer?

The Cardinal's forced smile widened; no cat could have looked more satisfied as it observed its prey. It was doubtful the man had shown any genuine amusement – apart from the odd beheading or torture victim perhaps – since he was a child, and even that was unlikely. Still he attempted to lull the woman into his web.

'However, now that you are here, I have a proposition for you.' The woman's eyes widened. She had wondered how long it would take to break the man down; she had begun to believe she was losing her touch, or that the Cardinal really was a man of God – despite the rumours.

However, now the moment had arrived, she could not deny a shiver of revulsion at the prospect of attaining her goal. Still, a woman had no control or power except through a man and, next to the King, Richelieu was considered the most powerful man in France. So she would do what she must.

ooOoo

The rest of the week passed without any great event. Treville kept the three men busy, Athos in particular. He had the swordsman working late into the night, going through the recruit applications, making sure they had chosen the best that were on offer. Neither of them mentioned Du Bois, though he was expected to arrive first thing in the morning.

Athos was perfectly aware of the Captain's ploy, and despite his clawing need to enact his nightly ritual, he could not in good faith disappoint his mentor so blatantly. Of course this did not bode well for the hours that followed, the hours when the swordsman sat alone in his room, drinking from his solitary bottle of brandy, in the hope that he could dispel the creatures that visited him when he closed his eyes. The ones that haunted his daylight hours were bad enough, but at night he had no control over their behaviour; their taunting came unbidden, their cruelty and their judgement relentless.

On top of these expected fiends, he now suffered a whole new terror, one that he had thought he had confined to the locked rooms of his childhood – the cloying, suffocating panic that enveloped him when the light faded.

He had awoken some weeks ago thrashing in his bed, feeling as though he were drowning in gritty water, as he sensed the sides of his room and roof pushing him further beneath the filthy depths.

As his heart rate began to slow, he became aware of the sound of dripping water from the guttering, resulting from a sudden shower. The dripping noise had triggered repressed memories of those final hours trapped in the tunnel. Inevitably, one memory led to another, and he had spent the remainder of the night reaching out for soft fingers, listening to a familiar voice offering hope and solace in the velvet silence – only to wake as always alone and angry. Whether it was because of his frustrated needs or his uncontrollable weakness, it did not really matter. Why could they not let him be?

But there was a far deeper fear that hung around the periphery of his consciousness, even more terrifying than any memory. What if they did not visit him of their own volition, but he himself summoned them each night in an attempt to assuage his own torturing guilt, to provide him with some desperate form of absolution? For if that were indeed the case, perhaps there would never be an end to his hours in hell.

Friday morning dawned hotter and more humid than ever, the storm that had been threatening to break all week having still not arrived. Athos slid to the side of the bed. He was still tired, but it was pleasant to awake without a thumping head, to join morning muster without concerned looks from Aramis and Porthos, and without sniggers from Deveaux and his cronies.

Athos stood and splashed his face with water, but even that felt warm, and in the end he placed the bucket upon the table and sank his entire head under the liquid's surface. Despite the feeling of relief from the stickiness of the night, he still withdrew his head more quickly than normal, his heart rate increasing as he drew in a ragged breath of air. He let the lukewarm liquid trickle down his body, the linen shirt he threw over his head sticking where the rivulets coursed down his back. Pulling on his boots he bent over and completed his ritual of stretching, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart. It had been a long while since he had been able to complete the manoeuvres without the room spinning, and if his panic still thundered in his ears, he chose not to acknowledge it.

Having lost his old leather jacket on his last mission, the swordsman pulled on the relatively new one, which was still slightly stiff. Despite the heat, he fastened it up tight and strapped on his weapons belt, his hand caressing his sword as he thrust it home. As he went through the door, he gave no last glance – there was nothing in the room worth checking – and he strode down the stairs to join the other Musketeers in the courtyard.

Making his way along the ranks, he noted Deveaux's irritation and disappointment at his sober state. He took his place in his usual position next to Aramis, with Porthos on his other side. He wondered if it were mere coincidence that they always made a space for him between them, or whether they were constantly prepared to provide a steadying prop should he need it. A pang of guilt speared his conscience as he thought of their selfless attitude, against his purely selfish follies.

Treville's door opened and he walked out on to the balcony; he could often be seen leaning on the balustrade surveying his regiment or seeking out a particular Musketeer. Today however, he was joined by a young man wearing suitable attire for a Musketeer cadet.

'Is that 'im?' Porthos murmured.

'Mm!' was Athos' succinct reply.

'I don't like 'im,' the big man stated emphatically.

Athos snorted, a curl of his lip the only sign of his amusement.

'We owe him the benefit of the doubt,' Aramis offered, aware of two heads swivelling in his direction, each bearing a cynical expression.

'You are both far too judgemental,' the marksman sniffed.

He was met by a series of stifled sounds, registering a mixture of sarcasm and disgust, and he could easily identify which came from whom.

'Men, this is Monsieur Du Bois. He is joining us a little early, ahead of the new recruits. Gerrard, if you will show him to the dormitory and give him a tour of the garrison. When he is finished, I would like a summation of his needs. Athos, Aramis, Porthos – that is you!' The three men nodded in unison. Porthos gave a snort of amusement, 'Excellent, I get to knock 'im on 'is skinny arse.' The big man's grin was always infectious, but neither Aramis nor Athos were smiling.

Despite what Athos had told them of his introduction to the man at the palace, Aramis, as always, felt everyone deserved a chance to prove themselves. Athos, on the other hand, had felt the eyes seeking him out, hunted amidst the rows of Musketeers, only to witness the cold satisfaction when Du Bois had finally located him. He remembered the thinly-disguised challenge the young man had issued at the palace. He was not in the slightest concerned by the suggestion, but he was overly conscious of the underlying reason for the young man's interest – particularly with the Cardinal's involvement.

The men began to move away to their various assignments, leaving the three friends watching the seasoned Musketeer, Gerrard, happily guiding the young man around the garrison. As they emerged from the dormitories where the cadets were housed, the young cadet's arrogant sneer had been replaced by a thunderous expression.

'Appen 'e's not pleased with 's accommodation,' Porthos chuckled.

'I have always thought the prospect of such close camaraderie a boon of being a cadet,' Aramis offered with a cheeky smile.

Athos merely quirked a brow and gave Aramis a look that said he suspected the marksman was either mad or simply naive, the twinkle in his eye softening his mien just a little.

All three watched as the two men approached, Gerrard holding back, a look of amusement upon his weathered features. Du Bois scrutinized the three men, as if deciding who best to address his concerns to. Porthos scowled, and Athos looked as cold and haughty as usual, so DuBois – as expected – plumped for Aramis.

'There appears to have been some kind of mistake. I must have a room of my own.' He stared at Aramis as though he would obviously solve all his problems, and that the dormitory was nothing more than an obvious oversight.

Aramis grinned. 'Monsieur Du Bois, I am Aramis, this is Porthos, and Athos – whom I believe you have already met.' He gestured to his comparisons who merely nodded their heads in acknowledgment, partly because Du Bois looked at them all as though their names were the last thing he needed to know, now – or almost certainly at any time in the future.

'Indeed,' he snapped. 'But my room…' Aramis interrupted him by raising his hand.

'I am afraid, Monsieur, rooms are only assigned to Musketeers. Cadets share a dormitory until they receive their final commission.

Du Bois looked horrified.

'My father is a very important man, he will not accept such an arrangement.' He stuck out his weak chin and placed his hands upon his hips.'

Porthos stopped scowling and scratched his head, glancing at Aramis with a mock expression of concern. 'His father is important.'

Aramis' smile faded and he looked thoughtful. 'That is interesting,' he said, and in turn deferred to Athos, who now lounged against the balcony post, arms folded.

'His father is important,' the marksman reiterated, frowning as though greatly perturbed.

Athos nodded and enquired of Porthos, 'Did the Comte de Lyon's son have a room of his own?'

The big man narrowed his eyes in concentration. 'Not that I remember.'

Athos nodded and turned to address Aramis. 'Did the Marquis of Royan's youngest son have a room of his own?'

Aramis feigned innocence. 'I do not believe he did,' he replied, shaking his head as though enlightened.

Athos appraised the young man, finally addressing him with his usual arrogant drawl.

'Is your father more important than that?' He already knew the answer, for Treville had told him the man in question was no more than a wealthy baron – and one with no great power.

Du Bois appeared apoplectic with rage, his attention skipping from one Musketeer to the other, all whilst Gerrard was trying his best not to laugh aloud at the three men's antics.

'The Cardinal shall hear of this, mark my words!' he asserted, before striding off toward Treville's office, fists clenched at his sides. All three Musketeers watched him leave with varying degrees of amusement. Porthos simply broke out into a loud guffaw, which the young man could not have failed to hear. Aramis grinned broadly, whilst Athos allowed the fleetest of smiles to flit across his lips before addressing the marksman.

'How is the benefit of the doubt working for you now?' He raised both dark brows and tilted his head, causing Porthos to renew his bellow of laughter.

Aramis shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 'Perhaps he will mellow.' Athos rolled his eyes and Porthos slapped the marksman on the back, still chortling with laughter.

All three men walked over to their regular table to await the angry young man's return. They knew it would not be long, as Treville would have no truck with such histrionics. In fact even the son of a royal Duke would have quailed at the prospect of disrespecting the Captain when his ire was roused. And so it came as no surprise when soon after they heard the door above close, firmly, but not slammed.

Eventually, Du Bois descended the staircase, and it was a rather subdued but red-faced young man that stood before the three waiting Musketeers.

'I am to begin my assessment in any order you deem fit,' he forced out through gritted teeth.

Porthos grinned with anticipation and looked to the other two. 'Me first?' If he asked the question with a little too much enthusiasm, Du Bois did not appear to notice. However, his eyes widened at Aramis' reply.

'He will need both eyes and a steady hand for me; therefore I will go before you break him Porthos.' They both turned to Athos, who shrugged. 'He purports to have some skill with a blade, so I will deal with what is left.'

The somewhat disconcerted young man attempted an air of bravado, but his pale face belied his efforts. Aramis stood and gestured for him to lead on toward the armoury.

'That should bring him down a peg or two,' Porthos chuckled. Athos simply watched them leave, aware that Deveaux also observed the young man's steps.

ooOoo

The man had been watching the house for a couple of days. He had spent far longer than he had expected locating the couple he sought. With a face like his, people were reluctant to volunteer information, usually assuming his intentions were nefarious. The years had not diminished his anger over such reactions that his damaged appearance aroused, and he relished the opportunity his new ally was providing for him to finally take his revenge.

The man and his wife had returned to the house not long before, but the watcher was waiting for dusk, intending to take advantage of the poor light.

As the road grew quieter, he waited patiently, melting into the growing gloom. Windows began to glow from within. Despite the heat of the day, the nights were beginning to draw in; soon the leaves would begin to fall, and the crisp chill of September mornings would be upon them. Carts were now all put away for the night, market stalls had closed, and even the birdsong had grown quiet.

Feeling confident the time was right, the slight figure slid from his hiding place at the head of the narrow alley and slunk from shadow to shadow, where possible avoiding the pools of light. He approached the door. No illumination showed from within, and for a moment he felt a spasm of irritation – had he waited too long? Had the old fools taken to their beds early?

With a last look over his shoulder, he knocked firmly upon the door, unsure what he would say if they asked who was there as opposed to opening it directly. He was about to knock for a second time when he heard shuffling from within.

He held his breath, waiting for the question to be asked, amazed when he heard the bolts being drawn back. The old man was more foolish than he had supposed.

However, as the oak creaked upon its hinges, he could see a leather and chain contraption that prevented the door from being forced open from without.

'Who's there?' came the long- anticipated question, the voice elderly but firm. The man to whom it belonged stayed well back from the opening.

'René, it is you, is it not?' the skinny man responded, keeping his voice as friendly as possible.

'Who wants to know?' The voice was wary. The old man drew closer to the door, and to the visitor's horror, held a lamp aloft. The old man watched as the stranger blinked at the sudden glare, shielding his eyes and at the same time, not realising he was using the reasonable reaction to also hide his face – but it did not help.

'I know you, you used to work on the estate,' the old man stated, his tone now curious – but the man at his door could still recognise the old judgmental tone in his voice.

'That was long time ago,' he smirked. 'I heard you now resided in Paris and thought I'd look you up.' It had seemed a fair comment, but he realised in retrospect that in reality it sounded weak.

'Why?' came the suspicious response. So, the old man wasn't such a fool; there would be no fireside chat about old times. Perhaps honesty was the best approach.

'Thought I saw his lordship the other day, but he was dressed like a Musketeer. Had a bet with a friend, thought you might help me earn a few sous.' He had decided earlier that would be his excuse if he had to ask outright, and it sounded believable.

The old man's reply was swift and brief. 'Then you've lost your bet. His lordship went travelling last I heard.' Before any more questions could be asked, the door shut with a resounding thud, followed by the sound of a heavy bar being dropped into place.

The man spat on the floor and cursed under his breath. He was none the wiser and he had nothing to show for his wasted days. Perhaps his new partner would have more luck. Turning into the darkness, he clenched his fists and headed toward the familiar tavern to plan his next move.

ooOoo

Du Bois followed Aramis back toward the bench. He looked a little happier than before, though as he watched Porthos stand and crack his knuckles, any confidence he may have gained slowly ebbed away.

Aramis grinned. 'Not a bad shot, but not a good one either.' The latter remark earned him a scowl from the cadet. 'But I can make something of him. He is all yours Porthos.' Aramis slipped onto the bench opposite Athos and sat back to watch the show.

Porthos was beaming, and slapped Du Bois on the back, almost sending him sprawling.

'Do not break him, mon ami,' came Aramis' amused request.

'Do not kill him,' was Athos' offering, delivered in his usual disinterested drawl. Porthos merely laughed and beckoned his wary opponent to make the first move. Du Bois circled the big man, who still grinned as though enjoying the game. Suddenly the cadet ran at the Musketeer but Porthos merely side-stepped the charge like a matador with a bull, raising a brow at the two men upon the bench.

Over the next twenty minutes, Du Bois landed on most parts of his body, and sometimes even Athos winced at the grunts of pain the action elicited, but still the young man got up and persevered. He did manage to connect a couple of blows, but they made little impact on the big man.

'He must be feeling sorry for him,' Aramis remarked as Du Bois landed a hit to the back of Porthos' head.

'No, he is bored!' came Athos' laconic reply. Both opponents were now sweaty and covered in dust.

Athos rose and nodded to the large Musketeer. Porthos raised both hands and smiled, 'Enough,' he chortled as he walked up to Du Bois and held out his hand. The young man was panting, but the anger showed clear upon his face, and he refused to acknowledge the gesture.

'I will not shake the hand of a street brawler!' He spat out his words, his face twisted in disgust. Porthos guffawed, which only served to increase the young man's ire.

Du Bois looked at the two men observing from the bench, his face flushed and incredulous.

'Is that how a Musketeer in the King's regiment should fight?' Aramis looked merely sorry for the young man and it was Athos who answered the query.

'It is if he plans to stay alive. Go and get some food.' He stood to stretch his legs and found the young man drawing his sword.

'Oh no, now it is your turn is it not?' Du Bois danced around and stood with his weapon ready, his eyes taking on a manic glint.

Athos merely looked at him and snorted. 'Get some food, I will not fight you until you have rested.'

'I do not need a rest, old man; perhaps it is you who are tired. I hear you keep late nights.' His arrogance was astounding, and the fact that Athos was only the boy's senior by a few years made the remark all the more ludicrous. If Du Bois thought to rile the swordsman, he had a lot to learn.

'Eat,' was Athos' only response. Aramis and Porthos no longer appeared amused, watching the interaction between the two men with interest.

'Why, so you can slink away for a drink?' Du Bois mocked.

'No, so that when I beat you, you will have no excuse,' Athos answered over his shoulder as he walked toward the stable. Du Bois made to follow, but Porthos placed a large and heavy restraining hand to halt his course.

'I wouldn't do that if I were you. 'E's right, we all deserve a drink and food. Lesson one, always eat and rest when you get the chance, for you don't know when you might next get the opportunity.' He kept his tone pleasant and steered the cocky recruit toward the canteen. He gave Aramis a concerned glance as he passed. The marksman understood his meaning and sought out Athos, just in case.

The swordsman was standing talking to the stable boy and turned as he heard Aramis approach. His expression remained neutral, but he was not in the least surprised to find his friend had come looking for him.

'That was interesting was it not?' Aramis suggested. Athos stroked Roger's neck and looked thoughtful.

'He was certainly well informed,' was his only reply.

'He has been listening to gossip,' Aramis offered, not sure how the remarks had affected his friend.

'Really? He only arrived a few hours ago, and apart from Treville, he has only spoken to the three of us.' He raised a brow and looked at Aramis for confirmation.

'That is true.' The Musketeer appeared puzzled. 'Well he did not hear it from the Captain, he would never had discussed such a thing.' Aramis had no doubt in his voice – Treville was a man of discretion and professional to the bone.

Athos stared across the now-empty courtyard and shook his head. 'No, he did not.' His words hung in the air and it was what he did not say that made the most impact; the unanswered question lying unspoken between them. Where had the obnoxious oik gotten his information from?

As Porthos and Du Bois entered the canteen, Gerrard, the older man who had shown DuBois around earlier, called to Porthos. Pointing Du Bois in the direction of Serge he made his way over to the table full of chattering Musketeers.

Du Bois watched him go, seething with anger. How dare they poke fun at him? He was not afraid of Athos; he knew the man's reputation with a sword, but he also knew the man's reputation with a bottle. A life like that left its mark, and he was about to show them the man was a fraud. Rest? What a joke! Still there would be no excuses, he would put the drunk in his place.

His demeanour had not gone unnoticed, attracting attention of one other man. 'You must be the new recruit, I am Deveaux. I could not help but notice you in the courtyard earlier with the street fighter. The man is a common rascal, do not judge us all by his underhand tactics.' Deveaux showed his contempt for Porthos by sneering in the big man's direction, having made certain his back was turned first – though Du Bois did not notice.

'Indeed, I am Du Bois, the younger son of Baron de Benoir.' He gave the slightest dip of his head. 'I must admit, I was horrified by his tactics, but then he associates with a womaniser and a drunk, so I suppose it is no surprise.' Deveaux beamed and gestured toward the table where his cronies sat.

'Please, will you not join us? You will find men of a like mind in our company.' Du Bois smiled and followed the snide Musketeer to his seat.

Porthos watched them over Gerrard's shoulder. Now that was a partnership he would have to watch – between them they could stir up a heap of trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

Du Bois' decision to sit at the table with Deveaux and his hangers-on had been duly noted. It could only bode ill – the young man hardly needed encouraging in his arrogance, or his disdain of those Musketeers in the regiment who could not lay claim to an elevated background.

'I see Du Bois has managed to find someone to listen to his troubles,' Aramis chuckled, breaking apart the loaf and dipping it in his stew.

Athos grunted as he dissected an apple and ate it in small pieces – as if to make the experience less painful – whilst his loaf and chunk of cheese lay untouched.

Porthos noted the abandoned food and eyed Aramis over the top of Athos' bent head.

'With 'is sunny personality, Deveaux is the only one who will put up with 'im,' Porthos responded. He frowned as Athos sat back in his chair. 'I take it you're not plannin' to follow your own advice,' the big man complained as he watched Athos push away the still full plate, the remaining food lying intact.

Athos gave him a stony stare. 'Please, be my guest,' he drawled, with a slight dip of his head.

'It's all very well,' Porthos continued as he helped himself to the chunk of cheese from his friend's plate, 'but you need to eat, or you really will fall off your 'orse; then Deveaux and his cronies will have a good old laugh at your expense, and I doubt they'll believe it's because you're 'alf starved.'

'I am fine, Porthos, I am simply not hungry.' He saw the concern in his friend's eyes and sighed. 'Perhaps this evening, when the assessments are over, it will be cooler.' It was a fair point, but it failed to impress either man as they watched him leave the room.

'You know 'e won't,' Porthos growled.

Aramis nodded; his dark eyes full of sadness. 'We cannot hold him down and force him to eat, mon ami. Perhaps we can tempt him with a drink at the Red Dragon, then procure a pie.'

ooOoo

Outside in the courtyard, the sky had taken on a strange violet light – the storm was imminent and the very air crackled with it. Those men walking around in the heat of the sun walked slowly as if half asleep; it was certainly not fighting weather.

Athos stood near the edge of the courtyard, pulling on the padded vest used for sparring. Du Bois still chatted to his dinner companions, now stood on the opposite side of the open space, as Porthos and Aramis took their seats at their usual bench.

'So 'ow's this going to go then?' Porthos asked, watching Du Bois waving his sword around for the men, who appeared to be hanging upon his every word.

'Athos will fight like a gentleman and attempt to show Du Bois how to improve his style – like he always does.' Aramis explained.

Porthos grinned broadly. 'You mean he will start off nice, then put the arrogant toad on his skinny backside.'

'That sums it up fairly accurately, I would say,' the marksman smirked.

'I can't wait!' The big man settled back on the seat and rested his booted feet upon the wooden plank before him, arms folded across his broad chest.

'Cannot wait for what?' Treville had moved to their side whilst they had been engrossed in the two men's preparations.

Aramis looked toward the Captain and smiled. 'Athos is about to assess the new recruit.' Treville frowned.

'And how did your assessment fare?' he enquired.

Aramis looked thoughtful. 'I am afraid he did not believe I appreciated his skill with a weapon as much as I should have.' He adopted a serious expression, but the twinkle in his dark eyes told of the humour behind the remark.

The Captain turned his attention to Porthos and raised his brow, waiting for him to give his opinion of the cadet.

'What do I know? I'm just a common street brawler, not fit to grace the uniform,' Porthos chortled, not taking the matter at all seriously.

'I see,' was all Treville said. 'So now it is Athos' turn, perhaps I will join you.' Both Musketeers smiled and Aramis poured the older man a drink.

Du Bois finally sauntered into the middle of the open space, brandishing his sword in an obvious attempt to impress his onlookers. But it was to no avail, not even Deveaux's cronies were impressed by such display – misguided though they may have been, they were still Musketeers.

Athos walked over to the younger man and passed him a vest. 'Put this on.' He held it out, but Du Bois only sneered.

'That is for cowards, I have no need of it.' Athos thrust the jerkin toward the young man.

'Put it on - or fail the assessment.' Whether it was the thought of failure, or the cold, hard stare from Athos it was hard to tell, but Du Bois took the proffered jacket and pulled it on, though making a great deal of fuss, his disdain obvious. Treville looked on in earnest, his face somewhat pensive as the two men faced off against one another.

Athos raised his sword in an honourable salute. Du Bois acknowledged the gesture, moving from foot to foot but, to his surprise, Athos merely lowered his sword and walked toward him. Du Bois was temporarily stunned. The swordsman stood behind the young man and said something the onlookers could not make out. As he had obviously been instructed to do, Du Bois took his en garde position, and Athos manoeuvred the student's elbow – repositioning his wrist slightly.

Again, he spoke, and Du Bois lunged. Athos moved to his side and nudged his pupil's feet slightly apart, again speaking quietly as he did so. Much to the surprise of the men watching the display with avid interest from the bench, DuBois appeared to be taking the information in.

Unfortunately, Deveaux chose that moment to emerge from the refectory and re-join his friends, whereupon Du Bois, noting his arrival, immediately changed his demeanour.

He pushed Athos away. 'I do not need your beginner pointers, Monsieur. I was fencing in the nursery, whilst you were still grovelling in a back alley somewhere, hanging on your mother's skirts.' He curled his lip and made to lunge at the swordsman. However, he had not taken Athos' advice, and when the Musketeer brought his sword down upon his opponent's, he hit it with enough force to knock the young man almost off his feet.

Athos raised a brow. 'That is why your feet need to be further apart. Perhaps you did not have enough room in your nursery.' Whilst his face remained impassive, Du Bois flushed with embarrassment, and he came at Athos, teeth bared and jaw rigid. Steel clashed but mostly his thrusts were wild and easily parried.

'You need to control your sword, make smaller movements – you are leaving yourself open to attack,' Athos attempted to explain over the sound of booted feet and steel upon steel.

Du Bois snorted and once again lunged toward the patient Musketeer. However, Athos had obviously had enough – it was too hot to play games. To those watching he appeared to merely tap the other man's sword, but in a blur of movement managed to embed the point of his weapon firmly in the vest of the surprised Du Bois.

'Not for cowards, but to protect those who have yet to learn how to handle a sword... and for those who have the job of showing them the error of their ways,' Athos drawled, and he prodded his sword harder into the sparring vest.

Du Bois stepped back. His eyes were wide, and fear flashed within their depths – he had not even seen the blade coming.

'I demand first blood; that is no way to end a match.' He clenched his fists and Athos dipped his head in acknowledgment of the recruit's folly.

Du Bois turned to the bench, noticing the presence of the Musketeer Captain for the first time. 'I demand satisfaction!' Treville did not encourage this sort of tantrum. He was a soldier, instructing and leading a regiment of highly-trained men, not a bunch of petulant nobles. Still, something about the young man's attitude had offended his pride, and he wanted to show him that his Musketeers were not inexperienced street thugs. So, to Athos' surprise, he locked eyes with his swordsman and nodded his head.

As the two men prepared themselves once more, the Captain spoke. 'He will not kill him, will he?' He kept his eyes upon the opponents, as two voices answered him simultaneously.

'Hopefully,' Porthos growled.

'Possibly,' Aramis intoned, far too enthusiastically. Treville groaned yet made no effort to intervene.

Athos had not expected the Captain to agree, and for a moment he held the older man's eyes, but Treville stared him out. Athos frowned. He was not in the mood for chivalry, and whatever the Captain's reasons were for agreeing with Du Bois' ridiculous request, he was inclined to think it unwise – and wrong.

Du Bois began to strip off his vest and noting Athos' expression he laughed. 'Well I would not want it to be said you did not have a reasonable amount of target area.' He threw the discarded garment toward Deveaux and his friends, who accepted the item with amusement.

Frustrated by the idiocy of the young man, for a moment Athos only glared. Finally, he shrugged and divested himself of his own vest, his jacket following. The day's heat had caused the fine linen to cling to his skin, and his dark hair still stuck to his temples from the earlier sparring. He held his arms wide to show that he, too, was providing no barrier to the draw of first blood.

'He looks exhausted,' Aramis murmured, as much to himself as to anyone else.

'Well let's 'ope 'e isn't, or else Du Bois will slit 'is throat,' Porthos growled.

'I do not think so, mon ami. I have seen him fight with his last ounce of strength and still down two men at once. I doubt Du Bois will prove to be a problem. It only remains to be seen whether Athos is tired of the fool's taunts and swagger and ends it quickly, or whether he decides to allow the young man to retain a shred of dignity and lets him put up some form of defence,' Aramis explained.

'Then I 'ope he goes for quick,' Porthos snorted. Treville stayed silent – he had an appalling feeling that he had just made a terrible mistake.

The afternoon had moved on and the heat was now stifling, a distant rumble finally heralding the long-awaited storm. As the swordsman swung his sword arm, attempting to release the knots in his shoulder, the air was so heavy it felt like a physical barrier, to be sliced and overcome like any other assailant. He felt the early throb of a headache begin to make its way from the base of his skull, and he suddenly realised just how very tired he was. He thought of that dark corner at the back of the tavern; no interference, no chatter, just him, and wine for company. It seemed to call to him as he heard the buzz of Du Bois' voice like the irritating whine of a fly in the background.

'Athos, are you wool gathering, or are you having second thoughts?' The young man's voice pierced the Musketeer's reverie, and he stood for a moment in the strange pre-storm glow, trying to remember what he was doing.

'If I did not know better I would suspect you were drunk. Or did you in fact have a little too much at luncheon?' There was a sniggering in the distance from Deveaux and his party, as the inexperienced recruit tried to rile the troubled Musketeer.

'This was a foolish error, I must stop this now,' Treville snarled, but Aramis laid a restraining hand upon his arm.

'No, Captain, you cannot. You will have to allow events to take their course now, or Du Bois will assume you are protecting Athos for some reason, and it will only make matters worse for him.' Aramis spoke with resignation in his tone, his expression miserable, but as he removed his hand Treville nodded in agreement, though his guilt was almost palpable.

By now there was a ring of spectators surrounding the two fencers. The cadets always loved to watch Athos fight, as much to enjoy the spectacle as to pick up any new tips or moves to add to their repertoire. However, this time there were several old hands amongst the audience – word had travelled quickly of Du Bois' idiotic challenge, coupled with the Captain's unusual acceptance. If one or two bets were changing hands, nobody would have admitted it afterwards.

Du Bois was moving backward and forwards, as though he were in some Parisian fencing salon. Athos simply watched. He had no intention of prolonging the event; he had an engagement with a bottle of wine and time was of the essence.

Du Bois lunged, once again ignoring Athos' advice, but as the swords clashed, he managed to remain upright this time, though he staggered backward as he tried desperately to regain his footing. Athos did not stand off as he had done before, but instead bore down upon the shocked recruit, who could do nothing but step further and further backward trying to block the relentless onslaught. It was only a matter of time before Athos would have him backed up against the pillars of the staircase, but it never went that far – one graceful lunge and Athos hit Du Bois' sword with such force it flew from his hand.

Before Athos could draw blood, something sailed through the air and Du Bois caught it, flinging it from him almost as soon as it entered his hand. Athos saw the main gauche catch the strange violet light as it hurtled toward him. Swinging his sword in an arc he caught the knife mid flight and sent it spinning to the ground. Enough was enough, he lunged and lifted Du Bois' chin with the point of his weapon.

The boy's eyes were wide with fear and anger as Athos dug a little deeper, causing a trickle of blood to run down his victim's chest, soaking into the white fabric of his shirt.

'Never, fight angry. Head over heart if you want to stay alive – on the battlefield you would now be dead.' With that, Athos withdrew and sheathed his weapon, turned, and began to walk away, not toward his waiting friends, but in the direction of the stables. However, it appeared Du Bois did not know when to stay down, and giving a furious roar he threw himself at Athos. The swordsman spun round as if he had expected such a move, and landed a heavy right hook to the young noble's jaw. Du Bois went down like a sack and lay sprawled upon his back, out cold.

All three men had stood as one when Deveaux had thrown the knife. It was against every code of honour to interfere in such a way. Treville was livid, and if Athos had not hit Du Bois, the Captain may have done it himself.

The two Musketeers at his side let out a collective sigh, and Porthos even sniggered just a little at the sound of Athos fist on the recruit's chin.

'Athos does have a powerful right hook,' Aramis remarked.

'I know,' Porthos muttered, instinctively feeling his own jaw with his hand.

Treville managed a thin smile; he was aware of Aramis' and Athos' ritual of knocking the big man out before attempting to patch him up after a particularly vicious fight.

Athos changed direction and headed over to the bench. He looked at Treville and spoke, his voice low and menacing. 'Do not ever do that to me again.' With that, he turned on his heel and strode off toward the stable, leaving the Musketeer Captain scowling after the swordsman's retreat with a mixture of anger and a large helping of guilt.

'Follow him,' the Captain barked as he rose abruptly from the table. 'You, with me now, and you, I will deal with later.' His first remark was directed at Du Bois who was beginning to come round, the second at Deveaux, who looked far less smug than he had earlier. Treville was furious, and the two men were just what he needed to assuage his roiling emotions.

ooOoo

Athos was already leading Roger out when Aramis and Porthos arrived at the stable entrance. He looked from one to the other, with an expression that clearly warned them to keep their opinions to themselves.

'Do you mind if we join you?' Aramis enquired, keeping his voice casual.

'Can I stop you?' Athos drawled, scowling.

'No,' Porthos stated, coming straight to the point as always.

The idea of company seemed to change Athos' plans; he stroked Roger's silky neck and whispered something in his ear. The horse rubbed his master's shoulder in response before Athos handed him back to Jacques, the stable lad.

Athos strode off through the gateway, Porthos and Aramis on either side. No one spoke, though Athos could almost hear Aramis' questions in his head.

Thunder rumbled, though still not close enough to dissuade the three men from venturing away from the garrison – and as if a downpour would have kept the swordsman within its walls after that farce.

'It would seem the storm is finally arriving. Perhaps the air will feel lighter when it has done its worst.' Aramis chattered away as normal but did not realise the words had held a double meaning for his friend.

'If my company is too dour, then perhaps you should have left me to my own devices,' Athos stated, his manner decidedly frosty. Porthos scowled at Aramis over the head of the brooding swordsman. Aramis rolled his eyes in apology, realising how his words had sounded to Athos.

Realising his moody friend would not be cajoled out of his mood, Aramis tried a different tack. 'I do not know what Treville was thinking, it was most unlike him to agree to such a course of action, or should I say stupidity – on Du Bois' side, I hasten to add,'

'Reckon 'e was tryin' to prove a point, not sure what point, but 'e 'ad somethin' on his mind. Reckon 'e's regrettin' it now though. Du Bois is an arrogant one and that's for sure. Didn't do 'im any 'arm to be brought down a peg or two,' Porthos stated.

Athos said nothing.

'You were right, mon ami, the Captain should not have put you in such a position. It is not the way of the garrison, but as Porthos says, he must have had his reason. Perhaps he will explain when we return.' A single snort from Athos suggested he would not be particularly receptive to any such approach.

Aramis considered making a further attempt to ease the uncomfortable atmosphere with more chatter, but for once he could think of no remarks that befitted the occasion.

Athos strode on ahead, in no mood to wait for his friends to catch up. He was so very angry – angry with Treville, angry with himself, angry with life. He should have declined the ridiculous challenge, he was better than that. He was proud of very little, but he would fight with honour, unless his life, or the lives of his friends were truly at risk.

'Wot's the plan?' Porthos asked, keeping his voice down.

'Why do you always ask me?' Aramis moaned.

'Because I would just come out with it and ask 'im why 'e's so bloody moody, and you know that wouldn't end well,' Porthos answered with a grin, slapping his frowning friend on the back.

'Well let us begin by getting him something to eat,' Aramis suggested, 'I swear he is swaying with fatigue and hunger.' He nodded to Porthos as Athos dipped his head and disappeared through the familiar doorway. The Three Cups was a well-ordered watering hole; the food was reasonable, the wine fair, and the wenches fairer. It was, however, not well-favoured by Musketeers, as it was some distance from the garrison, but Athos could have picked somewhere far worse. Aramis suspected he often did, and wanted to keep the two sides of his drinking life as far apart as possible.

The interior of the establishment was airless and smelt of bodies, beer and smoke. It was hardly unusual and elicited no reaction. In the corner, a roar of amusement went up as someone celebrated their good hand. Porthos hesitated and looked over his shoulder at Aramis.

'Oh no, you are not going to abandon me to deal with him alone,' Aramis warned.

Porthos adopted his most hurt expression. 'You know 'e'll be better without me there – just shout if you need me.' With a broad grin, he reached the corner table in two strides and was seated before Aramis could even begin to form an argument. Shaking his head, the marksman began to follow Athos, who as always had sought out the furthest table possible, the one in the darkest depths of the room.

'Why, Aramis my lovely, it 'as been too long.' A comely serving wench, with large breasts and dimpled cheeks, smiled at the Musketeer. 'It is good to see Athos, I was beginning to think... well, you know.' She drew her finger across her neck and Aramis grinned.

'No, Athos is fine, he has more lives than a cat, but I am surprised you noticed his absence Bridget,' Aramis responded.

The girl looked at the marksman from under her lashes and giggled. 'You ain't the only 'andsome Musketeer you know.' With that, she turned and hurried back to the bar, where a large, red-faced landlord was calling her name. Aramis smiled and shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him how women noticed Athos, yet his friend managed to remain completely oblivious.

By the time Aramis reached the table and sat down, Athos was already pouring his first glass of wine. Aramis followed suit and deliberated on how to go about prodding the swordsman's fragile defences. He gesticulated to Bridget and soon she approached with two steaming bowls of stew.

'Good beef stew, my lovelies. This will set you to rights, even on such a night as this. I reckon the storm will blow in tonight, and let's 'ope it's a good one.' She placed the two bowls upon the table then retreated back the way she had come. Aramis admired the spectacle of the swaying hips, whilst Athos stared at the stew.

'Eat up, mon ami, please. I know you are hungry.' The way he entreated the errant Musketeer made Athos look up. Whatever he saw in his friend's face made him give a single nod of his head and he began to ladle the fragrant smelling broth into his mouth.

For once he cleaned the bowl, finishing it off with a large chunk of bread. Aramis grinned with satisfaction. 'You have no idea how gratifying it is to watch you eat,' he intoned.

Athos looked up, giving the faintest quirk of his lip. 'I worry about you, Aramis, I really do.' He sat back and sipped from his cup, a faraway look upon his face. Aramis felt emboldened by Athos' sudden appetite and quip, and decided to take advantage of the moment.

'What is it, mon ami? Why are you so distracted of late – is it her?' He noticed Athos' jaw clench and hoped he had not said exactly the wrong thing.

'She has gone,' Athos replied, looking intently into his cup.

Aramis did not respond, trying to decide just how to interpret the remark. Did he mean she has gone my heart is broken? Or did he mean she has gone that is all there is to it? He decided to go for the latter, it seemed the far safer option.

He nodded as though he understood, but pressed on. 'You are settled now, you have your commission, the men trust you, the cadets worship you and even the King asks after you. Why then are you still tormented? Is it the tunnel?' He was so absorbed with Athos' expression he was only partially aware of the swordsman picking up the bottle and squeeze it in a vicelike grip. Just as the brittle glass exploded a man bumped into Athos' arm and spilled the contents of a jug upon the floor.

'Hey, what you doin'? You just knocked my drink everywhere,' the scrawny stranger complained. Athos gave him a cold stare, and something flickered across the unknown man's face, as he licked his dry lips. After a moment of silence, it was Aramis who spoke.

'I am afraid you are mistaken, my friend did not move.' He gave a friendly grin to show there were no ill feelings, but the man persisted, a look of hope seeming to light up his features.

'Are you callin' me a liar?' He placed the empty jug upon the table and squared his shoulders. Aramis sighed.

'Not at all my friend, I am merely suggesting you have misinterpreted the situation; this gentleman did not move, you perhaps stumbled and bumped into him.' It was a rather feeble attempt to defuse the situation, but Athos was not helping by glaring at the man with open hostility.

The swordsman sat and stared at the stranger. Aramis had stirred up his already bubbling anger, like a child poking a hornet's nest with a stick. He was in no mood to discuss his problems with his friend, and for the first time in a long while, he could feel the burning thrill of fury thrumming through his veins.

As the gangly patron continued to whine and demand recompense, Athos felt himself rise – it was as if his body was acting on impulse and he had no control over his actions. The man was now poking Aramis in the shoulder, and even the placid marksman was beginning to scowl.

'This drunken sop is a disgrace to your regiment. I thought you were supposed to be special,' the skinny fool snorted. There was a sudden flurry of movement and, for the second time that day, Athos brought his right hook into play. His fist connected with the man's chin and, so unexpected was the blow, it sent him flying backward onto the table behind, where he lay silent and unmoving. Now there really was a loud yell of complaints, as the men who had been enjoying a quiet drink watched their beverages splash into their laps and faces.

'Mon dieu, I suppose it was inevitable,' Aramis murmured. Athos made a ridiculous bow and doffed his hat, as the men stood as one and drew their weapons.

'Not in here, gentlemen, please,' Bridget pleaded. Athos gave her a nod and grinned at the four men.

'Gentlemen, shall we continue this outside?' He pushed his way through the interested onlookers and made his way toward the door, and though they appeared somewhat confused, the four men followed. Aramis shrugged his shoulders and trailed after them. As he passed Porthos, he shouted, 'I'm needing you now!' With that, he continued on his way, ignoring the eye-rolling protests of his friend. He did not need to check to know Porthos would follow.

By the time Aramis reached the street outside, Athos was already facing off against the four men. For just a second Aramis was tempted to watch. It was certainly a marvellous spectacle, but truth be told he was in the mood for some exercise and he did not see why Athos should have all the fun, so with a whelp of relish he stood side-by-side with the swordsman and joined in.

'Let us try not to kill anyone, it upsets the Captain,' Aramis grinned. Athos raised his brow in acknowledgment, but made no promises.

As Porthos made his way through the door, the air was filled with shrieks of pain– one man clutching his bleeding arm, whilst another lay prone upon the floor. Aramis was enjoying leading his opponent a merry dance between a pile of scattered barrels, whilst Athos deftly played with two more adversaries. Porthos cracked his knuckles and approached one of Athos' opponents from behind. Lifting him off his feet he held him kicking and screaming, until the very lack of air left him limp and unconscious.

As the man fell still to the floor, so Aramis' victim ran limping and screaming into the night. At the same time, Athos slid his sword along the weapon of the wide-eyed man he was fighting, and before either could untangle their blades he brought his head down upon the other's nose, feeling the satisfying crack of bone. He pushed the screaming figure away and let him stumble off into the night. Suddenly the combined rush of anger and adrenalin seemed to leech from his soul, leaving him numb and drained. He felt neither satisfaction nor remorse – he felt nothing at all. He wanted to be alone, he needed to sleep, but he knew what that meant. However, he turned his back on Aramis and Porthos and began to walk back to the garrison, just as the first raindrops began to fall.

There was a loud crack of thunder and the heavens truly opened. The deluge bounced off the dusty floor, soon turning the street into a running river of mud. Lightning split the sky and, as it illuminated the city, macabre forms appeared hovering over roof tops and dodging into bottomless alleys. It felt as though hell had broken open and the demons within were roaming free and without restraint.

Porthos had to yell to make his voice heard. 'I take it you never got around to having that chat?' Aramis shook his head, rivulets of water running down his face, despite the brim of his hat.

'I tried, but we were interrupted – though it may have been for the best, I do not think he was very receptive.' Porthos laughed despite the horrendous weather.

Lightning flashed once more, and the garrison gateway filled the street like the gates of heaven. Even Athos appeared to increase his pace, though he was already way in front of his friends.

As the three men hurried within the regiment walls, an unexpected sight met their eyes. Treville stood just inside, blocking their way. He, too, was soaked to the skin, and Aramis wondered if he had been standing there ever since they had left, awaiting their return. Perhaps he planned to apologise – though it was extremely unlikely.

'Where have you three been?' He looked Athos up and down and scowled. 'Brawling. I should have known.' Aramis was somewhat confused as to how the Captain had reached that conclusion.

'Get some sleep, you are going to need it. First thing in the morning you two…' pointing to Aramis and Porthos, '…are coming with me to the palace.' They managed to stifle their groaning responses as Treville continued. 'You, put all of the new cadets through their paces. I want a written report on each one by noon.' With that, he turned on his heel and headed back to his quarters without another word.

Before Aramis or Porthos could speak, Athos followed him and headed toward his own room.

'Well goodnight, Athos,' Porthos growled.

'I rather suspect that for once we all deserved his rejection – including the Captain – though why he assumed we had been fighting I do not know.' Porthos shrugged and placed his arm around his friend's shoulders.

'Well at least we have only to stand and watch the spectacle that is the King and Richelieu, I don't envy Athos' morning. How many recruits are there?'

'At least fifteen as far as I know,' Aramis responded. 'Let us hope he gets some sleep. At least he ate his stew.'

'Stew? Who had stew?' Porthos roared. Aramis laughed and patted his friend's shoulder, chuckling as the big Musketeer looked wide-eyed with indignation.


	6. Chapter 5

Athos sank heavily onto the small bed that was positioned against the far wall of his room. The ambience within the space was almost cell-like; the furniture was simple and minimal, comprising just those items necessary for life's basic needs. There was a bed, a small table and one chair – well only one Athos had wanted, the other two were stacked in a corner and only used when Aramis and Porthos managed to wheedle their way into his sanctuary, which did not happen often if Athos could help it.

There was no sign of a life before the garrison; no favourite object, picture, or memento of a former existence at all. The room was bleak, reflecting the mood of the occupant – hopeless and unloved.

There was only one thing that held any interest. The sword Treville had kept safe for him hung upon the wall, but the swordsman could not bring himself to use it, and anyway it would warrant too much attention for a Musketeer. Upon his commission, he had replaced it with a newer weapon, a fine blade on which no expense had been spared. However, he had been careful to choose nothing ostentatious, nothing that would identify any secrets about its owner. Only someone lifting the fine blade would realise its worth, and Athos had no intention of letting that happen.

He lit a candle, the flame instantly warming the damp and gloomy atmosphere. Lightning occasionally lit up the room, illuminating the sparse items within, and when extinguished, only heightening the effect of the darkened corners, leaving the impression something lingered in the shadows, just out of reach.

Athos wiped a hand across his face; he was warm, and so very tired. His clothes were soaked through and, despite the humidity, he felt himself shiver. Slowly he began to pull off the sodden leather, gloves first, and it was then he realised that he was hurt. So much had happened all at once he not even noticed the gash along his palm where he had snapped the neck of the bottle. Now aware of the damage, his brain kindled the sensation of pain and it began to pulse and throb along with the beating of his heart.

Athos knew he should make some effort to deal with the wound, but for some reason he could no longer keep his eyes open. However, he managed to tie a strip of cloth around the injury before tugging off the remainder of his wet clothing and collapsing back upon the bed. Feeble, he pulled the blankets over his head as the rain beat against the window and the thunder crashed overhead – if he wasn't in hell already, he soon would be.

Athos tossed and turned. The blankets suffocated him, and as they became tangled around his limbs his pulse would quicken – as it had for weeks – and his lungs would fight for air. Inevitably he would wake in a panic, soaked in sweat and fighting for breath. As he basked in his ability to breath in fresh, free air, he was remotely aware of the remains of the candle giving a small and guttering flame, whilst thunder still rumbled around the garrison and rain drummed a heavy staccato upon the roof of the building. A strong wind had blown up to accompany the storm and now whistled along the balcony outside.

Athos reached for the back of his neck and pressed against his hot skin in an attempt to ease the stiffness in his muscles. His head ached, and his hand throbbed mercilessly – the skin was stretched like a new glove, and his fingers felt as though they would surely split if he bent them too far. Once again, he resisted the nagging warning to seek out help. It was late, Aramis would be sleeping, and he would rather stand the pain than let the medic in the infirmary take care of his injury.

Feeling around under the bed, his left hand closed upon the smooth surface of a bottle, a decent brandy he kept for nights such as this. Pouring a hefty draught, he drank back the amber liquid without pause. The fire warmed his already inflamed body, but it was a healing fire; if only he could use its potency to heal his tormented mind. Athos stripped the bed of sheets and lay back upon the bare mattress – if there was nothing to plague his tired body, then perhaps his memories would lie buried and locked away where he wanted them to remain. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure images that brought no discomfort, but the sad truth was they were few and far between. It was no wonder his sleep was plagued with guilt and torment for, when all was said and done, he appeared to collect more such burdens with every passing day.

Still, as the hours slowly slid by, the thunder rolled away into the distance and sleep finally came, with no more terrors at being trapped below the earth, no more fears of suffocation, or the taste of soil and mud. This time it was a summer's day, the grass moved and swayed in the soft breeze, and small flowers poked their heads above their emerald stalks. The gauzy white fabric floated around her willowy form, echoing the drifting clouds in the blue sky, but there was no laughter today, no talk of love and lingering kisses – only the creak of the bough and the stretching of hemp as it held its weight beneath the swaying canopy of leaves.

Suddenly a loud crack made his heart lurch, and the image vanished. Athos did not know if this was still part of the dream or whether the storm had returned and, still groggy from sleep, he pushed himself upright. The room was dark, the candle no longer burning upon the table. He listened intently for any sound or movement. Nothing. In fact the silence was so intense it rang in his ears. As his hearing adjusted, he tuned in to the barely audible sound of ticking from his pocket watch, hidden somewhere within the heap of damp clothes upon the floor... but that was all. Athos felt no immediate sense of danger, but could not shake the sense of unease that something or someone lurked just out of sight. Menace bristled in the intense quiet, and despite his heavy limbs and pounding head, Athos knew further sleep would be impossible.

As the swordsman considered the coming day, a light wind blew across the room and the Musketeer stiffened. Athos felt for his sword. No window was open, but the sudden chill was no draught from beneath the door, or whistling wind from between a crack in the woodwork. He moved carefully toward the entrance, realising as he approached that the door was slightly ajar. With his arm outstretched Athos eased the obstacle open further with the tip of his blade, but a slight creak was his only reward, along with another cool blast of air, the long-awaited respite brought by the recent storm. Athos ran his hand along the edge of the wooden panel. The lock was loose; something had given it a heavy blow, presumably the noise that had awoken him.

Puzzled, he made his way over to the table and took another candle out of a small box upon its surface. Once more the flame lit the spartan quarters, only this time the glow alighted upon a single piece of paper lying just inside the door.

Frowning, Athos reached for the parchment and opened it out. Just one word was scrawled across the plain page – Murderer. The accusation leapt from the paper as though it had been thrown in his face. His heart drummed against his ribs and his mouth was suddenly dry and choked, yet a cynical smirk played upon his lips – did they think he would be alarmed by the claim? He could not deny such an accusation, how could he? Sometimes in the dead of night he envisioned his hands red with blood. Yet to which of his deeds the note referred he could not tell; after all, just how many were dead at his hands? If someone really meant to accuse him of such a sin, then they would have to be more specific, and that thought alone left a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach. What type of man could admit to such a crime, committed not just once, but too many times to ever warrant redemption? If his accuser really wanted vengeance, how could he blame them? Ultimately, perhaps they deserved to take their revenge, only time would tell.

As the room began to lighten with the pale rays of dawn, Athos gave a deep sigh, and with none of his usual grace rifled through the heavily-bound trunk to seek out dry clothes for whatever forthcoming challenges were lying in store. His head still ached and his arm felt heavy. Thoughts of the next few hours spent with an eager batch of cadets elicited a groan, and it was with a heavy heart that he pulled on his shirt and prepared for the task he had been given.

Of course, there was the added frisson of some mystery avenger bent on accusing him of murder to add to his growing list of supporters. The note's mode of delivery meant it could only be a Musketeer, and whoever it had been he had hardly been subtle. Du Bois perhaps, or possibly one of the other fifteen or so recruits who had made the garrison their new home in the last few hours. Indeed, it was going to be an interesting day, if he could see it out without any new disgrace to add to the Captain's growing list, that would be an achievement, but he had to admit he was not hopeful.

ooOoo

Aramis and Porthos rode beside the Captain in silence, the scowl he had given them as he mounted enough to make even the garrulous Aramis hold his tongue. Neither man had seen Athos at breakfast, and though he rarely ate it, he would generally join them to push some morsel around his plate and make the occasional grunt in answer to their questions. But not this morning. Aramis had wanted to check to see he was alright following his abrupt departure the night before, but a quick visit to his room had told them nothing – empty and as tidy as it ever was, but no Athos.

It was Treville who broke the uncomfortable silence. 'Should I be concerned about last night's events? Am I about to be confronted with a furious Cardinal demanding the heads of my men for fighting with the Red Guard?' There was no humour in the question. It would not be the first time for such an occurrence, and both men doubted it would not happen again at some point in the future. The enmity between the two regiments was legendary, but Porthos' penchant for cards and Athos' temper meant that the three of them were particularly hated by the Cardinal's personal guards.

'No, it was a misunderstanding, nothing more. In fact, we acted in defence this time, we did nothing to provoke the attack,' Aramis explained.

Treville gave his man a sceptical glance. 'Really, three Musketeers whose reputations precede them were attacked without provocation?' Aramis looked thoughtful; the Captain did have a point.

'Well, a man accused Athos of having knocked over his ale, when in fact Athos had not even moved.' As he recited the events out loud, the marksman began to consider the series of happenings as they had unfolded the previous evening, reviewing them now in a different light. 'I attempted to talk the man down, but he was oddly persistent,' said the marksman with a slow, dawning realisation.

'What, and one man took on the three of you?' Treville scoffed in disbelief.

Porthos looked offended. 'Nah, that was the four men at the other table, after Athos gave the first man one of his best punches and knocked him across their laps.' Aramis glared at the big man but Porthos shrugged. They had been provoked and all things considered he thought telling the truth was probably the best course of action.

The Captain gave a snort. 'Completely without blame then.' For the first time, Aramis thought he sensed a slight unbending in his superior's voice; enough for him to risk the question that had been bothering him since last night.

'May I ask how you knew?' he enquired. Treville appeared surprised by the question and gave Aramis his full attention.

'Athos' injury,' he replied, noting the look of surprise on the marksman's face and hearing the groan from Porthos.

'What injury?' Aramis demanded. 'He sustained no injury in the fight – it was swift, and two of them had the sense to turn and run. Athos injured one, but not badly, and Porthos, well Porthos put one to sleep, and I doubt he will incur any serious ill effects today.'

Treville did not know whether to be concerned by the two men's ignorance or not. 'Well there was blood dripping from his fingers, so he must have sustained some form of wound, though I should not be surprised by his silence.' He was scowling once more, but Aramis was struggling to recall the events leading up to the drama. He thought back to their somewhat one-sided conversation, to Athos' stone-faced reaction to his probing. He recalled him standing bottle in hand.

Suddenly he elicited a deep moan. 'Mon dieu.' So much had happened all at once that he had failed to note what Athos was doing when the stranger had approached. Now he saw it all quite clearly: the broken bottle neck and Athos' grimace as the glass had obviously cut into his palm.

Treville and Porthos swivelled at the sound. 'Wot is it? Wot's 'e done now?' the big Musketeer growled, his deep voice a mixture of annoyance and concern.

'I cannot be sure, but just as the stranger accused Athos of knocking over his drink… well let us say, we ... well I … was discussing a delicate subject, it is possible I was touching on a rather raw nerve.' He stopped to gauge the other two men's reactions. Treville was still scowling, but Porthos had the grace to adopt a somewhat guilty expression, knowing he had left his friend to deal with their touchy comrade.

Aramis continued: 'He had picked up the bottle from the table, and again I am not sure, but I have a hazy recollection of breaking glass, which I must have mixed up with the sounds of the fight. But thinking back, I believe he may have snapped the neck of the bottle in his… annoyance. He said nothing, and things happened so quickly I gave it no more thought.'

'His bloody left hand,' Porthos sighed.

'What?' Treville queried.

''E was fightin' with 'is left 'and when I came outside. I noticed because I thought 'e was deliberately playin' with 'im. 'E does that sometimes when'e wants to let the cadets think they have more of a chance. Of course they don't, 'cause 'is left 'and is a good as 'is right.'

'God knows where that bottle had been, and you can bet he has done nothing to look after the wound,' said Aramis, almost turning his horse around.

'He is a grown adult, and if he has not been to the infirmary then that is his own doing, Treville stated firmly. 'We have a busy morning, and the King does not like to be kept waiting.'

'So 'as Athos – 'e's sparring with fifteen new recruits… with an injured hand,' Porthos muttered through gritted teeth, keeping his remark just short of insubordination. Treville, in turn, said nothing, but he wiped his hand across his face, and Aramis noted him briefly close his eyes in a gesture of contrition.

They reached the palace with no further discussion. Treville led them through the corridors, occasionally nodding at or acknowledging a member of the household. Aramis noted how many ignored the Captain; not out of arrogance, but they seemed somewhat distracted, and one or two even angry. As they neared the large room where Louis liked to hold his morning audiences, they became aware of raised voices.

The large double doors opened, and the three men entered, Aramis and Porthos holding back a little to allow Treville to make his greeting. However, the Captain held his tongue, all three of them watching as the King danced around the large space, stamping his foot and waving his clenched fists in the air like a five-year-old in a fit of anger.

'I will have my alterations; I will have my navy and I will have the hunting lodge at Versailles extended. I am the King, Richelieu; I will not let a bunch of old men stand in the way of my plans. I will not, do you hear me?'

Richelieu had the expression of a man who had borne a great deal and was attempting to remain stoic in the face of immense provocation.

'Indeed I do, Your Majesty. I understand your frustration, however…' he did not get the opportunity to complete his sentence before the monarch set to ranting once more.

'However, however, h-o-w-e-v-e-r, that is all I hear, and now you too Cardinal. Are you saying you agree with those philistines?' After one final stamp of his foot, Louis stood still, hands clenched, chin in the air and sporting a full pout. The Cardinal gave Treville a single look of resilience before bowing to the King's temper. If he had learnt anything at all as First Minister, it was to acquiesce before the King, then carry out steps to thwart the cantankerous Monarch in private.

'Not at all, Sire, but they have their duty to perform, a duty you bestowed upon them, and for some, your father before you. They believe they have France's best interests at heart.' He attempted a beatific smile, but it did not last long.

'Are you implying that I do not, Cardinal?' the King asked, looking far more dangerous than he had just a minute before. Heads had rolled over far less disloyal inferences.

'Of course not, Your Majesty, no one could devote more to their country, nor do more to care and improve its stature. I merely wished to suggest an explanation for the council's behaviour.

Louis stomped once again. 'I do not care for an explanation. They are old, and as you said yourself, some of those men were appointed by my father. I need fresh blood, more forward-thinking minds like myself. It is time for a new council to be appointed, Cardinal.' Richelieu had the temerity to look appalled, and Aramis and Porthos were doing their level best not to show just how entertained they were by the First Minister's discomfort, as they watched him squirm from one ill-considered remark to another. Treville merely followed the discourse with careful consideration, all the while aware that he could be dragged into the argument at any moment.

Louis began to warm to his suggestion. 'Yes, I think that is a wonderful idea, but how to choose? I think we will host a delegation.' The King smiled broadly, the same spoilt child, but one who had now forgotten his disappointment in favour of a new and exciting proposition, and he clapped his perfectly manicured hands together with excitement. 'Yes, a delegation. Young men, Lords, Barons; those men who head up commerce and innovation in our great capital, I want to meet them all. I will find my new council from amongst men of my persuasion, Cardinal, not old men too close to death to care.' It was then that Louis turned to Treville. His eyes lit with enthusiasm, just as the Captain's heart sank like a stone.

'Ah, Treville, just the man. I have had a splendid idea. I am going to host a delegation. I want to be surrounded by young, bold and enthusiastic minds like mine. I am going to construct a new council –one with an eye on the future, not stuck in the past. I know that I can trust you and the Cardinal to see it is done. Two weeks should be sufficient. Good morning, gentleman, I must go and consult the Queen, tell her the good news.' With that, Louis strode from the room, leaving a stupefied Richelieu, and a stunned Treville in his wake. As the room slowly emptied, neither man moved or spoke until the First Minister and the three Musketeers were all that remained.

'Well you were a lot of help,' Richelieu spat as he stepped down from the dais where he had been sitting.

'I had very little opportunity to become involved,' Treville countered. He would have enjoyed the Cardinal's poor temper if it had not been for the list of problems now crowding his mind.

'Yes, well, I suppose you heard all that,' stated the First Minister as he walked toward the double doors. 'I think you and I had better have a little chat, and I do not know about you, but I could use a drink.' With that, he strode through the doors, giving the two guards at the door little time to open them to allow his exit.

Treville nodded to the two wary Musketeers and followed upon the Cardinal's heels. Aramis and Porthos walked discreetly behind, though all were moving at a brisk pace. The corridors were now deserted; all non-essential courtiers had scurried to a place of refuge having heard the King's outburst – his tantrums were well known, and nobody wanted to be caught up in whatever fallout would follow his eruption.

The Captain disappeared into the Cardinal's office and indicated for Aramis and Porthos to remain outside. The two men leant against the wall with sighs of relief.

'Well that was an impressive show of pique,' Aramis grinned.

Porthos chuckled. 'The Cardinal looked as though 'e wished to be just about anywhere but there. I reckon 'e was even pleased to see the Captain!' Again he gave a loud bark of laughter, but when he looked at his friend, Aramis was not laughing, if fact he looked most perturbed.

'Wot's up?' the big man asked, the smile vanishing from his face.

'We should have requested permission to return to the garrison. Why, oh why, did I not notice he had injured himself?' Aramis chastised himself, shaking his head.

Porthos gave a grunt of irritation. 'I noticed, but it never sunk in. It can't 'ave been that serious. It's not as though 'e was bleedin' to death.' Aramis appreciated his friend's efforts to settle his concerns, but they both knew Athos of old; he could have lost a finger and he would still have said nothing.

ooOoo

Whilst the two men were considering the state of their friend, the man in question was downing his second jug of water of the day, a state of affairs that had not gone unnoticed and had merited several jibes and malicious innuendos from Deveaux and his pack of hounds.

The morning had grown warm once again. The storm may have lowered the level of humidity but the heat blazed down into the arena at the centre of the garrison, where fifteen new recruits now stood with mixed expectations.

They had sparred in pairs, one of the newest Musketeers making up the final set. Athos had watched carefully, moving them around until he was happy they were sparring with a partner of relatively equal skill. This had taken the early part of the morning, and he was almost glad Treville had wanted a report by luncheon, as at least it meant he had to be fairly brief with his assessments and he would be finished before the worst heat of the day. However, it did not make him feel any better – his head banged remorselessly, and his hand was so swollen he could no longer hold his sword.

He knew he was being a fool, but he hoped Aramis would return soon, and he promised himself he would succumb to whatever chastisement the medic subjected him to as long as he stopped the pain in his hand. He dared not remove his glove; it felt as though the thick leather was the only thing preventing his fingers from popping one by one, and he had a horrible feeling the wound was bleeding once more. At least, he hoped it was blood…

He began pairing the cadets off and working with them two at a time, after which he would partner each in turn and make some basic alterations to technique and stance, this being more to judge their reaction and ability to take instruction than to assess their prowess. He was relieved to find there were no more like Du Bois amongst the group. One or two were a little full of themselves, but by the time they had lost their weapon for the second time, or found themselves upon their backside, they were willing to accept they had much to learn.

Noon was looming and there was only one pair left to assess. The other young men had been allowed to watch each of the pair in turn and were seated around the courtyard in an attempt to avoid the hot sun.

Athos was facing a fresh-faced young lad of eighteen, eyes wide with anticipation, but with an obvious eagerness to learn. Suddenly the swordsman was back at Versailles, sparring with the two young cadets they had been forced to take upon the trip due to the lack of experienced Musketeers. Only one had returned, and Athos had taken the boy's loss personally. After all, he had been the one training him to defend himself, and he had suspected the boy was not really ready to face an oncoming foe.

'Monsieur Athos, are you alright? Would you like me to get you some more water?' the boy offered, his young face full of concern.

'Late night, Athos?' Deveaux sniggered as he took a seat next to the watching cadets.

Athos ignored the jibe, but as he turned to glare at the pathetic excuse for a Musketeer the garrison moved around him at twice the speed, and he staggered slightly, causing Deveaux to scoff in disgust.

'Don't you think you ought to leave that to someone who can stand upright and hold a sword. It is hardly fair testing their ability with your left hand when you are perfectly capable of using your right. Or do you need the advantage in order to maintain the upper hand?' The words dripped with venom and the new recruits looked at the bitter Musketeer with a mix of surprise and interest, before reappraising the man who had been mentoring them for most of the day.

It was true that no noble son would have been allowed to continue with any preference they might have had to use their left hand, there were far too many superstitions and associated stigma attached to such an ability. Only miscreants and those with no formal education or interest in such problems used whichever limb they had been allowed to favour. Indeed, Athos had been born able to use either hand for any task as he so wished, though over the years he had rarely needed to use his left hand for writing, so had lost the ability to be as neat as he was with his right – but where swords and knives were concerned, his left hand was equally as impressive and equally as deadly as his right.

Still, to use it on the recruits had left them at a slight disadvantage, used as they were to practising with fencing masters who, unless they were particularly thorough, would never have encouraged them to use both hands with equal prowess.

Athos looked down at his right hand, his whole arm felt stiff and, if he was honest, he felt the first frisson of fear as he considered the cause of his pain – it could only be infection from the broken bottle. And if that did not kill him, then Aramis or Porthos surely would, but worse than that would be the permanent damage to his hand.

He passed his sword into his right hand. His fingers felt far too large to fit around the hilt, but he tried anyway. It was as much as he could do not to groan out loud as he succeeded in gripping the weapon. He managed to raise it and then used whatever willpower he had to ignore the crippling pain. Deveaux had been right, it had been unfair to the recruits, though he had tried to make allowances for their disadvantage. He began talking to the young man who had offered the water and slowly he adjusted his stance and offered pointers to his most basic of moves.

The heat felt as though it was melting him from inside out, and he longed to remove his jacket and vest, but he was not even sure he could.

'Not going to spar, Athos? Too tired?' Deveaux gave a raucous bark of laughter, and the recruits again gave the swordsman a look of doubt.

Just then, Serge appeared from the refectory carrying a large tray laden with cups and jugs.

'Something cold for you youngsters, it's too 'ot out 'ere for all this dancin' around.' He placed the tray down upon the table by Deveaux and addressed the smug Musketeer.

'Ain't you got anythin' better to do than give 'im grief? He's workin' ten times 'arder than you ever do,' the old man told the furious soldier.

'Who asked you for your opinions old man? Stick to peeling potatoes, and things that are your concern.' With that, Deveaux got up and knocked one of the jugs over, spilling the cool contents upon the ground.

Serge shook his head and trudged over to Athos with a cup in his hand, ''Ere drink this, I know you won't get yourself one otherwise.' He held out the cup, but Athos hesitated. He now held his sword in his good hand, and was not sure he could hold the cup in his injured one. Serge looked at him from under his grizzled brows.

'You don't look so good, you sure you're alright young'un?' Athos attempted to grin, but it came out more as a grimace of pain. He stuck his sword into the ground and drank the cool draught with enthusiasm.

''Ere, give that cup to me if you're done with it,' Serge added gently. Athos realised the man was aware something was wrong and was grateful for his discretion. 'I reckon it's time you called it a day, these new lads will be wantin' their dinners soon.' He gave Athos one last look of concern before walking back to the kitchen, muttering about stubborn fools as he went.

Athos had to admit the excuse of dinner was just what he needed. The last thing he wanted was to pass out in front of the men, especially after Deveaux's innuendos about drinking.

He addressed the wilting recruits and managed the slightest trace of a smile. 'You have all done well. It is hot and you must be tired, let us break for lunch, and this afternoon Gerrard will take you around the armoury.' The young men beamed and headed for the canteen in chattering groups, eager for some refreshment.

As Athos turned toward the bench, he heard the beat of horses' hooves coming through the archway. Never had he been so glad to see his friends – well at least not since the last time he had been in a dire predicament, which truth be told had not been as long ago as he would have wished.

He locked eyes with Aramis, and whatever the medic saw had him jumping down from his horse and marching across the wide-open space between them. Apart from Aramis and Athos, only Porthos and Treville were out in the open. Everyone else was eating in the shade of the canteen, which was fortunate, because as Aramis came within arm's reach of Athos the swordsman's eyes rolled back in his head and he sank to the ground like a stone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6

Athos was not destined to enjoy his oblivion for long. Kneeling at his side, Aramis took hold of the injured hand, eliciting from his friend a harsh intake of breath and a low cry of pain, as the previously inert figure's eyes flew open, staring in surprise at his abrupt return to consciousness.

'Forgive me, mon ami.' Aramis could feel the intense heat radiating from the glove and feared the worst. Looking over his shoulder, the worry was evident from his tightly knit brows to the grim set of his lips.

Porthos crouched on Athos' other side and the swordsman turned his pale face to the scowling Musketeer, grinding out one single word: 'Don't!' Porthos opened his mouth to reply but the cold glare on Athos' face told him perhaps now was not the time to begin his diatribe of rebuke – there would be time later, or so he hoped.

'The infirmary, now!' barked Treville. This time it was Athos' turn to be silenced. 'No argument, infirmary or face a disciplinary.' The angry growl brooked no quarrel, but it did not stop the recalcitrant Musketeer from making his opinion apparent. The look he gave his superior was insubordinate in its arrogance and disdain, but to his credit, Treville merely stared the stubborn Musketeer out until Athos turned his head away in disgust.

Aramis and Porthos took an arm each in an effort to raise the swordsman to his feet. However Athos was not about to succumb to their ministrations and shook them off in irritation. 'I am not incapable of walking!' He looked from one to the other, addressing them in his most superior tone, though neither man baulked at the officious rebuke.

To Athos' disgust, it soon became evident that from his seated position, and with his right arm close to useless, much to his growing annoyance he was struggling to right himself on his own.

Porthos said nothing, merely holding out his arm for his friend to make use of. Athos locked eyes with the rock of a man before latching on to his forearm with a brief nod of thanks.

As soon as Athos was seated upon a bed, the rather pompous infirmarian backed off, glad to leave what he considered to be an ungrateful and disreputable Musketeer and an insubordinate self-titled medic to get on with it. As far as the bigoted man was concerned, they deserved each other. Nonetheless, he kept one careful eye on the proceedings, as he knew people who liked to be kept abreast of such matters, and he was not averse to a little extra coin.

'I am afraid the glove will have to be cut off,' explained Aramis, now making decisions through the eyes of a medic, oblivious to all else. When the simple act of lifting the man's hand into his own caused Athos to hiss through gritted teeth, beads of sweat becoming tiny trickles of anguished perspiration upon the Musketeer's skin he had realised that removing the glove in any other way was out of the question.

'Do it,' was the only response, though it was barely discernible through the locked rigidity of the swordsman's jaw. Aramis gave the briefest of nods and Porthos positioned himself at Athos' back. The medic gave Athos the ghost of a smile before applying himself to his task. Throughout the preliminary preparations, Treville had remained in the background, seeking to give Aramis the room he needed, but now he stood at his medic's shoulder, taking a poorly disguised interest in what was about to be revealed.

Slowly, bit by bit, Aramis cut through the thick leather of Athos' glove and as the hide parted, so Aramis could feel the burning heat radiating from inside. The hand being gradually exposed was red and swollen, the fingertips and knuckles white from the force of the inflammation. As the soft cocoon fell away, Aramis gave a low moan as he saw for the first time the full extent of the damage to the disfigured appendage. The wound now exposed was oozing with yellow puss and dark streaks like cobwebs disappeared beneath the cuff of Athos' sleeve.

'I need to remove your jacket, mon ami.' Aramis glanced down at the long, sharp shears in his hand.

'No!' Athos managed to croak, 'I am not replacing this one.' The medic nodded and Porthos began inching the swordsman's good arm from his jacket. Removing his damaged hand was another story; every time it touched the side of the supple leather Athos gave a slow and heartfelt moan.

'I'm sorry,' Porthos apologised, his tone one of guilt and sympathy, until at last the useless arm was free. Aramis wasted no time in rolling up the damp linen of Athos' shirt to reveal the extent of the travelling infection. None of them were encouraged by what they saw. The arm was scarlet from wrist to elbow, with vivid red tracery where the virulent enemy left delicate patterns on the usually pale flesh as it forged onward with its devastating progress.

Athos was watching Aramis intently, and did not avert his attention as the medic examined the extent of the damage.

'Well?' he growled, asking the question on everyone's lips.

Oh Athos, why did you not wake me last night? Why did you not show me this morning? Aramis thought to himself, but instead he merely muttered.

'The bottle must have been filthy.' If Athos raised his brows slightly at the acknowledgment of the observation behind the remark, Aramis either did not notice, or chose to ignore it – he felt guilty enough that he had not registered the injury at the time, without Athos realising his neglect.

'What now?' Treville's question cut straight to the point but it allowed Aramis to banish all thoughts of what might have been and focus on the here and now.

'First I need to clean the wound and then cut away the infected flesh before I can close the lesion.' Athos had begun to shiver violently, though the grey pallor of his skin was now far too flushed for the medic's comfort.

Porthos draped the discarded jacket around his friend's shoulders, but it did little to help, the violent shuddering dislodging it almost at once.

Treville appeared with a blanket and wrapped it around the freezing Musketeer with a tenderness belied by his expression. Athos had slipped into a semi-conscious state and was beyond the point of acknowledging the gesture, but Aramis flashed Porthos a quick smile. Their Captain rarely remained in a temper for long, especially with Athos, despite the young man giving more cause than most.

Aramis reappeared by the bed and handed Porthos a mug of steaming liquid. 'Get him to drink this.' He looked away quickly, with only the slightest trace of a smirk as Porthos took the cup with a scowl and a reluctant grunt of thanks. Holding Athos upright, against his broad chest, Porthos positioned the cup for him to sip. Despite his feverish state, Athos grimaced at the pungent aroma. 'Drink up, mon ami, it is a new recipe for pain relief,' Aramis grinned.

'It is vile, give me willow bark,' Athos whispered, closing his mouth and refusing to oblige the patient Musketeer at his back.

Both Treville and Porthos looked to Aramis for his response, but the medic merely shrugged his shoulders and traded one cup for another, mindful of his patient's mulish expression.

'It is rather bitter,' he admitted. Athos sniffed the new offering with suspicion before slowly taking tentative slips in between convulsive shudders.

'Should we try to warm him?' Treville asked

'He will be plenty warm soon enough,' came Aramis' quick response, though the accompanying expression was one of unease.

Athos refused further pain medication, though he had taken more than the medic had expected.

Just then, a warm blast of air flooded the cool interior, and Gerrard popped his head around the door. 'How is he?' came the curious enquiry. Nobody responded, but their collective expressions alone removed any trace of a smile. 'That bad,' was his only comment. 'I am sorry.' With that, the older man withdrew, leaving the three men staring after him.

'I think I should go, we do not need incorrect rumours circulating around the garrison,' Treville growled.

Both men nodded, and though Athos' eyes were closed, nobody was fooled into thinking him asleep.

Treville stepped out into the brilliance of the sunshine. Though the infirmary was well lit, it managed to assume an air of gloom and cool shadows. He held his hand up to protect his eyes as he surveyed the courtyard. Standing in the far corner, he could just make out Deveaux quizzing an uncomfortable Gerrard. Just what Treville had hoped to avoid – the insufferable Musketeer would take Athos' removal to the infirmary and imbue it with tales of alcohol and lord knows what; anything to make him appear unfit to uphold the pauldron of a Musketeer – but Treville would not allow that, not for a man who had worked so hard to earn it.

In fact, it was Deveaux whom he had been waiting for in the rain the night before. Despite Treville's instruction to await an interview, the man had made a sudden disappearance, leaving the garrison soon after Athos and his friends had departed.

Treville was just considering calling Deveaux to join him in his office, when an anguished scream echoed across the heat-baked space, eliciting a wince from the seasoned Captain.

There were not many hardened soldiers – Musketeers included – who had not felt the bite of the surgeon's knife. He took in the sudden stillness of the new recruits, their terrified gazes fixed toward the infirmary. He hailed Gerrard and the man jogged toward him, responding to the urgency in his Captain's tone.

'Take them to the training ground and keep them busy,' Treville ordered. Gerrard's nervous eyes flicked toward the low building that housed the injured Musketeer, where another hushed howl could be heard from within. He affirmed his understanding and called to the group of youngsters, who now stood stupefied by the events unfolding out of sight.

Athos had endured much pain in his short life and was no screamer, but even he had his limits and the severing of putrid flesh had obviously taken him past his breaking point. Snapping them out of their morbid fascination, Gerrard herded the cadets out of the garrison to the field beyond, where the men did most of their training.

Treville's eyes lit on Deveaux's smug expression, the perfect target on which to vent his broiling emotions.

'YOU, with me, NOW!' the Captain snarled, stalking off in the direction of his office. He had been waiting hours for this, he had put it off for too long, and if he had been angry with the vengeful Musketeer before, he was bloody furious now. It was attitudes like his that had spurred Treville on to allow the disgusting spectacle yesterday in his garrison courtyard. He would not forget the expression of disappointment on Athos' face as he gave the go-ahead for the match. If he had acted differently, would Athos have gone off in so dark a mood? Would he have returned with the wound that now threatened his life?

Treville took up position behind his solid desk, scowling as Deveaux entered, barking his question before the man had even stopped moving. 'Where were you last night?' Whatever Deveaux had been expecting, it had not been this. His eyes narrowed, and he held himself rigid, his hands clenched at his sides. Nervously licking his lips whilst Treville's furious stare speared him to the spot, the Musketeer desperately struggled to formulate a response.

'I had business in town,' was his weak and feeble response.

'You did not have permission to leave, I had told you I wished to speak to you.' Treville leant across the desk speaking slowly, his voice almost inaudible, his anger bubbling just below the surface.

Deveaux shuffled from one foot to the other, his mouth opening and closing, but no words emerging. 'I... I had an urgent bill to settle, my… pistol… it was jamming.' He appeared satisfied with his lie – for a lie it most obviously was.

'Why did you not take it to the armourer? 'Treville continued, not prepared to let Deveaux off so easily.

Deveaux now felt on easier ground. 'I prefer to deal with a gunsmith in town.' Some of his usual arrogance had returned. Treville's brow furrowed. 'You do not trust the man who dispenses and looks after my regiment's arms?' Though he put the question to Deveaux, he already anticipated his response.

'I would not wish to burden him with my own personal weapon, and it is, after all, a family piece.' Treville suspected he had lost his advantage in this line questioning, and though he was still curious as to the man's sudden departure – despite his knowledge that the Captain was waiting to talk to him – he decided to let it go.

'So, let us now discuss your actions yesterday. You interfered in a match between gentlemen and behaved in a very ungentlemanly fashion.' He continued to lean across the desk in a most intimidating manner.

'Gentlemen!' spat Deveaux. 'Athos is hardly a gentleman. He may have some talent with a sword, but he employs manoeuvres which are far from gentlemanly. I still don't know why the King made him a Musketeer.'

Anyone observing the two men would probably have cringed at the statement. Despite having been bested by him on more than one occasion, Deveaux simply refused to believe Athos was the better swordsman. Instead, he preferred to accuse him of sly and underhand tactics or conduct not befitting a gentleman, but to be so blatant in his disapproval was nothing short of stupid.

Treville positively bristled with anger and indignation, and when he spoke, the level of control and the icy quality of his tone were enough to dispel any confidence Deveaux may have had in his opinion.

'I will tell you why the King made him a Musketeer. He does not have some talent with a sword, he is a brilliant swordsman, a fearless and skilful fighter, who is also a patient teacher to those who are prepared to listen. Athos asks for nothing, but gives everything to his comrades and his country. That is why the King made him a Musketeer. Treville glared at Deveaux, but the pompous, self-obsessed man did not know when to give in.

'We know nothing of him, unless you know his secrets. One night in a drunken stupor he many murder us all in our beds.' He stuck out his chin, refusing to admit Athos had any positive qualities at all. Treville clenched his fists. How he would like to reveal Athos' true status and watch this second son of a nobody noble eat his words – but it was not his place to do so.

Instead, he decided he was tired and that he would get nowhere with this fool. 'A man's secrets are his own. As for you, you are confined to the garrison for a week and on stable duty for the same duration.' Then he stood and straightened his shoulders, piercing Deveaux's attempt at bravado with his ice-blue eyes. 'And if Athos loses that hand, I will want to know exactly where you were last night or you will face a court martial.' Deveaux drained of all colour and left the room far more quickly than he had entered.

Treville considered what he had just said – he had uttered his worst nightmare aloud. He sat heavily in his chair and rested his head in his hands. The Musketeer Captain had a feeling that the next few hours were going to be very difficult indeed.


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The cleaning of the wound had not been the most pleasant of experiences for any of those involved. The shriek that had seen the recruits rushing to the training field had been the first cut. Despite the pain remedy and Porthos' strong arms, Athos could not prevent himself from reacting to the incision into the inflamed and putrid flesh; it almost rendered him senseless, but each new bite of the knife cruelly brought him back to reality.

'I am truly sorry, mon ami, but there is no other choice, it is that or maggots.' Athos glared as best he could, and Aramis gave an encouraging smile. 'I thought not.'

Porthos' large hands rested gently on his friend's shoulders, ready to hold him steady for the medic's ministrations. 'Just close your eyes and go to sleep, make it easy,' the big man pleaded. Despite his size and bluster, Porthos felt his brother's suffering deeply, his regular complaining and rebukes merely manifestations of his genuine concern – even if Athos ignored them completely.

Gently, the infected flesh was cut away, the cries gradually becoming weaker, reduced finally to moans, which were somehow even more pitiful than the hideous screams. The air in the infirmary was warm, yet Athos still shivered, and inaudible mumbles emanated from the feverish Musketeer as Aramis readied a bottle of alcohol to pour over the now raw wound. It had been a deep cut, which was probably why it had poisoned so quickly, and Athos' overuse of his hand during the day had certainly not helped.

'You had better get ready,' Aramis warned Porthos, who had relaxed his grip in the last few minutes. He eyed the bottle in Aramis' hand and frowned.

'It's gonna hurt,' Porthos acknowledged. Both men had previously been subjected to having wounds cleaned with such methods, and could easily imagine the short shock of pain about to be visited on the delirious Athos.

With a deep breath, Aramis poured the liquid over the lesion. It was still red and inflamed but there was no further sign of weeping or decayed areas. As the alcohol touched the hot skin, Athos' eyes flew open and his body went rigid. A low and piercing cry echoed forth, and both men administering to him winced at his reaction. However, it was obviously the last straw, as the swordsman's eyes rolled back in his head and he finally went limp in Porthos' arms.

'Thank God, at least I can now sew the wound closed without fear of causing more distress,' the medic sighed.

Gently, Porthos laid the unconscious man down upon the bed and stretched his cramped shoulders.

'It's bloody 'ot in 'ere, Lord knows 'ow 'e can be shivering.' Porthos scowled, his mumbled complaint yet again covering his deeper concern. Aramis broke off the thread and, sitting upright for the first time in almost an hour, gave a long groan as he let the knots in his body work themselves loose.

Athos had begun to move about in the bed, his dark brows knitted in a mixture of pain and whatever it was that tormented his current dreams.

'You'd think 'e'd enough to deal with without them plaguing 'im now,' Porthos grumbled, pacing the infirmary floor. Luckily, there were no other inmates at the moment; they had been lucky this summer that, despite the heat, there had been no serious outbreaks of disease and no dangerous missions to cause any of the regiment any undue injuries.

The two men were deep in their own thoughts, though if they could have read each other's minds they would have realised they were both worrying over the same outcome, but neither of them could bear to vocalise their fears.

Shadows crept across the floor of the infirmary, and muffled sounds of booted feet and the occasional laugh reached Porthos' ears. The recruits had obviously completed their training for the day and were settling down for a rest and food. Funnily enough, the big man did not feel hungry; his tired shoulders had in turn given rise to the beginnings of a headache, and he yawned loudly. Aramis had already fallen asleep in a chair, so exhausted was he from the strain of the procedure, and Athos continued to thrash and moan, the sheets becoming soaked with sweat as the heat continued to radiate from his body.

Porthos sat beside the bed. He felt he should talk to his friend, try to calm him, but the words failed to come. What could he say? Nothing he had ever said to the man when he had been awake had helped, none of his remonstrations, or suggestions had made a difference – most of the time they only elicited a glare or the slightest quirk of a brow, Athos indicating his preference for the big man to mind his own business. But Porthos knew the swordsman understood the reason behind his constant moaning, he knew Athos accepted the interference was well meant.

Porthos took hold of the swollen hand now swathed in bandages – the hand that wielded a sword better than any man he had ever seen. He remembered the first time he had observed Athos fight, and how he had sat in awe of his grace and skill. What if he could not use the hand again? The very thought caused his stomach to clench in an icy grip as the fear of such a consequence hammered in his head.

'You're a bloody fool Athos,' Porthos grumbled out loud. 'Why didn't you say? Why could you simply not 'ave shown Aramis the cut? You know better. You of all people know the danger of infection, and you bloody 'ate it in 'ere.' He glared at the infirmary as though it was somehow the fault of the building that his friend lay once again within its walls in an insensible state.

Evening had come and gone, and Athos appeared to have fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep. Porthos had let Aramis rest, as he may well be needed later. He yawned and leant back in his chair, settling his booted feet upon the edge of a vacant bed. As the light began to fade, with no candles lit within the rapidly cooling infirmary Porthos felt his eyes begin to droop. He struggled to stay awake – someone needed to keep an eye on Athos. He may seem asleep now, but it would not be the first time the stubborn fool had tried to leave his bed and had made matters worse. However, once the power of sleep begins to settle in your limbs, and your eyes become so heavy it is painful to keep them open, a man is powerless to resist, and soon Porthos was snoring loudly beside the settled medic.

ooOoo

Treville had been thrashing out rough plans for the King's latest bright idea. Luckily, the regiment was running at full capacity, and there were no events that called for any major commitments from his men elsewhere, so at least he would have enough soldiers to handle whatever the King had in mind. The candle had burnt low, and his stomach told him it was time to put down his pen and eat. He thought about the men in the infirmary as he exited his office.

'Verdan! Run and ask Serge to send a tray of food over to the infirmary, I will take supper with Aramis and Porthos.' The young, recently commissioned Musketeer rushed off to deliver the message as Treville strode over to the low building. As he drew closer he noted no light shone from within. However, he thought little of it and gently opened the door, not wishing to disturb Athos if he were sleeping. It was silent in the gloom, a chill had crept upon the evening and the Captain could not help but shiver. It was not just the cold inside the low structure, or the fact that no light shone at all – something else made him feel uneasy. His eyes gradually became accustomed to the light and, as he reached Athos' bed, the reason for his disquiet became apparent. Both Porthos and Aramis were asleep in their chairs, both exhausted by the trauma of helping their brother. Treville shivered again and moved to light a lamp near the table where Athos slept.

The swordsman was lying still, and something about the quiet repose made the soldier stiffen. He felt his breath hitch, and he instinctively reached out his hand to feel the pulse at Athos' neck. For a horrible moment he felt nothing, and it was at this point that Aramis finally roused from his long sleep. He saw the Captain's face in the light of the lamp and the fingers placed at Athos' throat and panicked.

'What is wrong?' He leapt from his chair, shaking off the confusion that accompanies the sudden arousal from a premature sleep.

'What's up?' Porthos yelled, his feet banging upon the floor as they slipped from the opposite bed.

'No!' Aramis almost screamed, drawing the worst conclusion. He pulled Treville out of the way and placed his own hands at his friend's throat. Athos made no movement at all.

'Calm yourself, he is breathing,' came Treville's reassuring voice. 'But it seems weak,' he added, not so confidently.

'How long have I slept?' Aramis asked of anyone who listened, the guilt on his face almost a palpable sensation.

'You were asleep soon after you finished stitchin' 'im up, you needed the rest. It is my fault I should 'ave stayed awake,' Porthos moaned, coming to stand at Aramis' side. ''Ow is 'e?'

'I do not like his breathing, it is too even, too deep,' Aramis complained. 'He is soaked. Help me change his shirt and sheets.' The medic almost choked on his words, so overcome was he concerning the neglect of his patient. As they removed his shirt, Aramis moaned; the tracery of infection was now near Athos' shoulder, his whole arm swollen, making the bend where his elbow should have been almost unrecognisable.

Between them, all three men saw Athos cleansed and laid gently back in a clean bed, leaving his shirt off in an attempt to keep him cool.

''E's quiet,' Porthos observed, looking at Aramis with unease.

'Too quiet, said Aramis. 'Usually he is thrashing – either because of the infection or because of the torment he experiences whenever he sleeps. Moving him like that must have been excruciating, yet he did not even flinch.' Aramis' face was drawn and full of doubt.

'Surely then this peaceful sleep is good for him?' asked Treville, grasping at the positive outcome of such a state, needing to hear some good news. Aramis only shrugged.

'I fear it is time for a greater skill than I possess. Can we call Lemay? He is a good man and he does not judge. Athos liked him.' For some reason, this last fact seemed important. Athos was not a man who liked to expose any sign of weakness to another, but he had received treatment from Lemay when he had been blown up during the Queen's fated birthday party, and had voiced his respect for the young physician.

'I will send for him,' Treville offered, glad of the excuse to do something positive.

Porthos and Aramis sat in silence. It was Aramis who broke the stalemate.

'I should not have slept so long, I should have watched him more closely.' He drew his hand through his dark locks, his handsome face full of anguish.

'You 'ad earned your sleep, it is me who should 'ave stayed awake and watched 'im,' growled an angry Porthos. 'I thought 'im losing 'is 'and was the worst thing that could 'appen, but…' He did not finish his sentence but noted the look of horror on the medic's face and looked sheepish. He did not like the silent Athos. He wished he would thrash and moan, at least that way he would seem more alive. Like this, he was far too close to a corpse for his liking.

Porthos had voiced the spectre that had hung in the room ever since they had seen the extent of Athos' injury, and yet still they refused to discuss the possibility they dreaded. 'How could this have happened? It has only been hours since he was thrashing Du Bois with his usual finesse. How could he have been reduced to this so quickly, and for no reason that was worth such a sacrifice? God! Why did I have to push him? Why could I just not simply jolly him out of it? He clearly did not wish to discuss her, this really is my fault.'

'It is not your fault,' Porthos shouted. 'You did what we thought was for the best. That bloody woman is a devil, whether she is present or not. If I ever see 'er again I will kill 'er, and dispose of 'er body so 'e will never know.' Porthos was in a rage of frustration, and if Milady had appeared at that moment, Aramis did not doubt that the giant would have removed one element of Athos' suffering forever.

Athos was in a world of fire and ice. One minute he was freezing, and the next he was consumed by the roaring of flames, burning and blistering his skin as he howled in agony. Gradually, the cold and heat began to fade; everything began to fade. Thomas floated away, Anne became a quiet voice at the end of a long, long corridor. He was floating, in water perhaps, but he was not afraid, he did not feel the suffocating fear he had experienced since his tortuous entrapment in the tunnel. This was dark and soft, as though he were floating on his back in a dark pool. Thick liquid seemed to support his tired frame; there was no pain, no dreams, just quiet, peace, and freedom from guilt and judgement. It was a wonderful existence, at first. He waited for the bliss to end, but it did not, it stretched out before him, luxurious and relaxing. He allowed his eyes to close and his body to fall back into the supporting arms of velvet obscurity, hoping he could stay there forever. If he thought he could hear voices he let them be, they were not important, not relevant anymore, he blanked them from his mind and slept, settling into a long and peaceful oblivion.

When he could hold the thought in no longer, Porthos finally asked: 'Do you think 'e will lose the 'and?' He looked toward the medic like a child who wants a parent to tell him everything will be alright – and how Aramis wished he could tell the Musketeer what he wanted so desperately to hear.

Aramis shook his head. 'I do not know, mon ami. I hoped the infection would slow, but there appears to have been a worsening of his condition, and I am too much of a coward to unwrap the bandages and look. Lemay will be here soon; he will decide what to do.' Porthos eyed the medic with concern; it was not like Aramis to sound so desolate, or to avoid what needed to be done.

'You can't let guilt decide your 'and, it is not your fault. If anything we 'ave both neglected 'im. 'E needs you, 'e trusts you, I trust you. Do what you know you 'ave to, you will feel better for it, whatever 'appens.'

Aramis smiled at the serious Musketeer and nodded, then took Athos' hand and began to gently unwrap the bandage, every layer raising the beating of his heart. As the bindings came off, so the hand was gradually exposed. It was still red, the tracery close to the wound almost purple in colour. As the two men saw the yellow fluid seeping between the stitches, Porthos grimaced.

'Mon dieu,' Aramis growled in exasperation. 'Not again.' He reached for the small pincers and one by one he began to cut open the carefully placed stitches. As the wound was revealed, it was slightly better than they had expected. Some of the flesh showed areas of pus, but not the whole wound. Aramis dabbed at inflamed edges with a cloth soaked in a diluted alcohol solution, but Athos never made a move.

'All the times I've willed 'im into unconsciousness, now I just want to 'ear 'im scream,' Porthos said, his voice catching in his throat.

As the two men stared down at the inert form, the door opened, and two men entered.

'Doctor, it is good to see you,' Aramis greeted Lemay warmly.

'Aramis, Porthos, it is good to see you too. I only wish it was for a more agreeable reason.' He looked down at Athos and frowned.

'This does seem horribly familiar. May I?' He asked for permission – he had still not forgotten examining Athos without having first asked and the swordsman nearly strangling him.

'Please go ahead,' replied Aramis. 'I almost wish he were capable of complaining, but there is no response at all.' Lemay gave a nod of understanding and approached the bed.

Gingerly, he lifted the hand and looked at the exposed wound, the cut stitches still visible in the inflamed flesh. He frowned and looked toward the medic. 'You have cleaned the wound well, Treville told me how it appeared when it was first exposed. But I see the infection is still prevalent.' As Porthos held the lamp for him to see, he examined the wound closely. Letting the swollen limb rest upon the table, he gently pressed and felt along Athos' arm, always vigilant for any sign of discomfort from the unconscious Musketeer.

'Tell me again what happened,' Lemay requested.

Aramis shook his head. 'We were drinking, I was trying to encourage him to unburden himself of recent worries, but I pushed him too far. He was holding a bottle and he simply broke the neck.' The medic fidgeted a little before continuing. 'Unfortunately, an unexpected drama ensued and I was distracted, he had his glove on after that and I gave it no more thought. Then today he was involved in assessing the new recruits and was sparring with them for most of the day.' His eyes flicked to the Captain, but he tried to cover the action with his hand.

'How many did he work with?' the doctor asked. This time it was Treville's turn to look uncomfortable.

'There were fifteen of them. As far as I can make out, he was working with them from breakfast until we arrived back at the garrison well after lunch.' He held his head up and straightened his shoulders, but the two Musketeers knew he felt bad about the situation he had set in motion.

Lemay eyed the three men and guessed there was much that had been left unsaid, but he gave a small smile and looked thoughtful.

'He did not use this hand I imagine?'

Aramis shook his head. 'He is proficient with his left hand as well, which is partly why we did not notice earlier, as he used it last night to, er, deal with our little problem.'

'And I suppose he said nothing of this injury?' The question was rhetorical, and the men treated it accordingly –having worked with Athos before, Lemay had come to know the young man's reticence to admit injury or pain.

After some internal debate, the doctor appeared to have reached some form of conclusion, and he turned to wash his hands. 'Well doctor, what is your opinion?' Treville asked the question the other two men dared not.

Lemay sighed heavily. 'It is very early to say what we may expect. I believe what we are seeing here is something I have read about, called heavy sleeping. It has been noted that when the body is placed under such trauma, it may put itself into a prolonged sleeping state in order to allow itself time to heal. At the moment, Athos feels no pain, and it is unlikely he is aware of anything, either sensation or noise. As for the infection, it may slow its rate if the body is inert and in such a still condition, but it is severe and has already taken hold, so only time will tell.' He looked to the three men hanging upon his every word. 'I am sorry I cannot promise more.'

'What about 'is 'and?' Porthos asked, his voice solemn, the dread clear from both his tone and his facial expression.

Lemay frowned. 'It very much depends upon the wound. Should the infection worsen and we have to cut away more flesh, then there will be a risk to the tendons and inner workings of his hand, which may affect his ability to move his fingers when he recovers. There again, if gangrene were to set in…' He eyed the three men with as much sympathy as a man could express. 'Believe me, I know what I am saying, and how it is the worst thing you wish to hear. But there is hope. The wound is now clean and I suggest you leave it open, and bathe it in a tincture of salt water and herbs every hour. At least whilst he is in this state it will not cause him any further pain.'

'What about food and drink? He cannot stay in that condition without water.' Aramis sounded desperate and his face was bleak.

Lemay shrugged. 'I am afraid I do not know of a way to introduce fluid into the body whilst it is in such a state.' He thought for a moment then gave a small smile. 'It is possible that if we introduce a trickle of water he may be able to swallow – I just do not know.'

'Should we try now doctor, whilst you are still here?' Treville asked, and Aramis seconded the suggestion.

'Very well, let us try. We will need him to be sitting, which may prevent the water from going down the back of his throat, but I dare not risk pouring it straight into his mouth.' He looked around the infirmary for inspiration. The room was in semi-darkness, but he alighted on the clean rags the infirmarian kept ready to dress wounds. 'That might do. Soak a rag in clean cold water, and we will drip the liquid into his throat.' Aramis hurried to the pile of linen and filled a bowl with cold water. He handed the rag to Lemay whilst he held the bowl.

Porthos took his position behind the unconscious Athos whilst Treville held the lamp aloft. Lemay soaked the rag, held it to Athos' face and, parting his lips, wrung the cloth out into his mouth. Most of the liquid ran down his chin and settled amongst the dark hair on his chest but, bit by bit, the moisture gradually made its way down his throat – or so they hoped. At first nothing happened. Then, as they each stared intently at the sleeping figure, there was the slightest movement of his Adam's apple; not easily noted, but three pairs of eyes were watching it intently.

'He swallowed it!' Aramis exclaimed with joy.

Lemay grinned. 'Yes, I believe he did, but it will not have been a great deal so you will have to do it often. I suggest perhaps you do it upon the hour, after you have dealt with the wound. Just make sure your hands are perfectly clean. I recommend you boil the rags and the water; we cannot risk introducing any other form of infection. It has been suggested that unhealthy water introduced into the system can be deadly, especially to one so weak.'

They repeated the process several times more, then Lemay straightened up. 'I have done what I can. Let him rest for the remainder of the night and begin the process once more at first light. I will try and come again tomorrow afternoon, but if he worsens or you are concerned then send for me and I will come.'

'Thank you,' came the joint response from Porthos and Aramis.

'I will see you out, Doctor,' Treville offered. He walked out of the infirmary into the darkness, somewhat surprised that it was so late. 'Tell me Lemay, what are his chances?' There was a sound of hopelessness in his voice that left the doctor full of remorse, for he knew he could say little that would help.

'I was being honest, Captain, I really do not know. He is young and strong, but Athos has always had a darkness which can undermine all of that, he does not always fight the way he should. However, if all goes well and the herbs and treatment do what I hope, he should make a full recovery. As to the hand, it has suffered much interference, but I have not seen any sign of internal damage, so time and rest should see it right, God willing.' He took his leave and Treville stood to watch him go. He was a good man, and the Captain knew of no one who could have done better.

As he re-entered the infirmary, Aramis and Porthos were preparing for their night's vigil. 'Stay with him, you are excused from any other duty tomorrow,' said the Captain. 'Just keep me informed.' He was about to leave when Aramis stopped him.

'What did he say?' The medic knew Treville would have spoken to the doctor out of the hearing of the two worried Musketeers.

Treville hung his head, and when he looked up at the expectant man, he sighed but his voice was gruff, and it was obvious he was attempting to remain distanced from the enormity of the question. 'He said he had done what he could, now it is up to God and Athos.'

'Then we 'ad better pray,' said Porthos from behind the two men, 'Cos only one of 'em might be interested.'


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

London, England

The ballroom was full. Over-heated bodies pressed against each other, whilst fans fluttered furiously as women struggled to maintain a pale and ladylike facade. Wherever you looked, candelabras burnt, the golden light flickering and bouncing from crystal to crystal, sending a myriad of colours spiralling around the room – an obscene display of wealth and extravagance only heightened by the display as it caught the sapphires, emeralds and rubies which abounded, and echoed their brilliance upon the canvas of the creamy walls.

There would have been rich pickings to be had tonight if she had not been on her best behaviour or, at least, not in the market for murder and robbery.

The man at her side was making more monotonous introductions to yet another boring Englishman, to whom she curtsied, making the appropriate responses. She reluctantly submitted herself to the lecherous assessments that inevitably followed these moments; old men, marvelling at the fortune of one of their generation making such a splendid catch.

Yet despite her silent revulsion, since her arrival in England a few months ago, she was secretly delighted with her achievements. Though her flight from Paris had not been urgent, there were items she had been forced to abandon and debts owed to her, that she had not had time to claim. Still, she had left with her life, so anything was now possible.

Dover had provided her with ample cover. As she took her time observing those about to embark upon long voyages, she knew just what she was looking for, and fate appeared to play right into her hands – it certainly did not take long to identify the most suitable target.

In fact, after a mere two nights staying in the busy, main coach road Tavern, she noted a prospective victim – a young woman, foolishly travelling alone, intending to embark upon a journey to the Americas to begin a new life with relatives she had never met. The young woman had been only too eager to make the acquaintance of a sophisticated widow travelling back to France after the sudden death of her husband. The woman, whose name was Annabelle – another remarkable sign that fate was lending its hand – was innocent to the point of stupidity, and it took only a few glasses of wine and the promise of a marvellous view of the stars to send the girl to a watery oblivion.

Milady de Winter was put to rest, and Lady Annabelle Renard – the widow of the late Baron Renard, a reclusive and wealthy French noble – was born.

Now armed with an excellent supply of clothing and jewels, Milady arrived in London ready to make her debut on the aristocratic, social whirl; there was nothing like a virgin hunting ground to make the blood thrum in her veins.

Milady had spent weeks considering what was on offer. A young man would not be appropriate alas; what she needed was an older man, a wealthy man, not necessarily with a title, but childless – one whose sudden death would not be questioned, especially with a young new wife. After a great deal of simpering and crocodile tears, she had speared an elderly Earl, widowed and childless – perfect.

Now, amidst the gaiety and snivelling compliments, strode a dangerous complication. It was with furious irritation, and a not insignificant amount of fear, that she locked eyes with the young man rapidly approaching her party. He heralded from the latest Spanish contingent attempting to curry favour with the English King, trying to put an end to an ever-embarrassing war with Spain.

Charles, of course, was having none of it. He had still not forgiven Philippe for the humiliating disaster of the failed match between himself and the Infanta. However, Milady did not care about war with Spain, or even talks of the possible war with France. What she did care about was the spark of recognition on the face of the man now bearing down on her.

There was no chance of flight. She could faint, but if she were feigning unconsciousness, she could not control what was being said over her head. So, with little option to avoid the inevitable confrontation, she held her ground and let her cunning have free reign. Now standing only inches away, she dropped a low curtsy and waited for him to speak.

'What an honour to see you again, Milady, and so unexpected,' the young man drawled, a feral gleam in his eyes. The elderly Earl surveyed the fair-haired man in front of him and gave a courtly bow.

'You have me at a disadvantage sir.' The Earl eyed his fiancé and looked in askance for an introduction.

'Please forgive me, my dear, I am forgetting my manners. May I present the Comte de Rochefort.' Displaying her most winning smile, she continued. 'This is my intended, the Earl of Dunmarrow.' She watched carefully for any clue which would indicate his planned response, but the Comte merely smiled, though the expression was not comforting.

'Rochefort, my pleasure. It is so nice for my intended to meet someone from her own country. I am afraid my French is rather rudimentary.'

Rochefort gave the Earl a smug acknowledgement before turning on her with a feline smile. Speaking in his natural tongue he addressed the woman, choosing his words with care. 'Milady, what a surprise to see you here, and it appears I should be offering felicitations on your upcoming nuptials. Will the Cardinal be officiating?' The smirk on his face was fair warning of the harm of which this man was capable. She knew of his alliance with Richelieu and could only dread how much of her association with the First Minister he was aware of.

'I have left France, and my life is now here,' she replied, her own expression as contrived and alert as his.

'Really, and was the First Minister sorry to see you leave? I thought you two were thick as thieves – or should I rephrase that...' The smile was more firmly fixed, but his eyes were as cold as ice and she felt the force of his malevolence. So he knew.

The Earl was beginning to look rather left out, though Rochefort had deliberately talked at speed to lessen the likelihood of the old man following their conversation – even with his marginal French he would have picked up on the reference to King Louis' right-hand advisor.

'The Cardinal and I have parted company,' she replied, her delivery rather pithier than her smile and the coquettish tilt of her head implied.

'How unfortunate,' was the Comte's only response. Reverting back to English, he turned back to the rather confused Earl. 'May I offer you my congratulations, my Lord. I wish you and…' He paused deliberately, and for the briefest moment she considered tipping her wine down the front of his breaches, but he continued speaking before she could act. '… Lady Renard, a successful union.' With that, he gave a stiff bow, turned on his heel, and headed back the way he had come. Milady watched him leave. So he also knew her name, she realised, or at least the name she was now using. What else he knew was unsettling. Perhaps this called for a regrouping – it would appear that a retreat to the country was called for.

ooOoo

Paris, France

Athos slept on throughout the next day, Aramis and Porthos taking it in turns to sit beside their unresponsive friend. The only positive side to his deep sleep was his apparent oblivion to the fever raging throughout his body. As Aramis gazed down upon Athos' flushed countenance, he could only marvel at the peace in which the man appeared to exist, as his whole outward appearance screamed only pain and misery.

The inflammation had spread no further, and the two men had been overjoyed to observe no further putrefaction when Aramis had re-dressed the wound a few hours previously. Both he and Porthos had celebrated the small success – anything to take their minds off the reality of the situation. Lemay had warned them that little was still known about the condition known as heavy sleep, and he could make no promises as to Athos' state of mind when, or if, he eventually awoke.

Heaping concern upon concern, they mithered about the prognosis for his right hand, the thought he may yet lose it being too much to comprehend. Yet again, the young doctor had erred on the side of caution. He admitted he could see no long-term damage, no ligament or nerves affected, but infections could leave a trail of disaster of their own – only time would tell. After all, it had been a mere cut across Athos' palm and, had it received immediate attention, the chances were all of this could have been avoided.

When Porthos noted the dark shadows around Aramis' eyes, he knew that if their injured brother sustained permanent damage, the medic would blame himself for neglecting to realise the injury had occurred right under his nose, and probably as a direct result of his attempts to help Athos face his demons.

Porthos had assisted Aramis in the drawn-out attempt to keep Athos hydrated, slowly and gently dribbling water down his throat. The patient probably only managed to swallow a fraction of the water they gave him, but it was better than the alternative. The swordsman's features were becoming gaunt, and his eyes, now permanently closed, were sunken. Lemay was fearful of the on-going lack of hydration, but he could think of no alternative solution other than the one they were already employing.

With Aramis busy in the role of medic, Porthos attempted to take his mind off Athos' plight by teaching the new cadets hand-to-hand combat. His booming voice – accompanied by occasional raucous laughter – penetrated the cool interior of the infirmary, causing the doleful Aramis to smile.

As one by one, the young men hit the ground, Porthos began to relax for the first time in days. His opponents were hauled back onto their feet by the jolly Musketeer's large hands and, despite their sore bodies, his defeated opponents could not help but smile in response to the big man's encouragement.

Du Bois had been sitting with the others awaiting his turn. He had heard all Deveaux's rantings regarding Porthos' colourful history, and his ungentlemanly fighting style, but he had still watched with interest. He could not help wondering, surely, if you were fighting for your life then behaving like a gentleman would be the least of your concerns. Still, as the group he was sitting with slowly dwindled, he began to experience a modicum of apprehension.

He was abruptly shaken from his thoughts upon hearing his own name echoing loudly in his ears; it seemed Porthos was ready. The Musketeer was beckoning him over with both hands and had a broad grin upon his face, and if there was a degree of over-eager anticipation in his expression, Du Bois chose not to see it. However, as the younger man squared off to the giant opposite him, both men were interrupted by a disturbance at the gate.

'Please, you don't understand, I must see Monsieur Athos, please!' The woman's plea carried across the stifling courtyard, where the two fighters and their audience had been standing in silent anticipation.

All eyes swivelled to the gate, including Devaux, who had been glowering in the shadows of the stables dreaming up revenge on the man he blamed for his current humiliation. The guard's response was too quiet to make out, but her distraught tone carried clearly.

'Did Monsieur Athos get my letter? Did he leave a reply? Oh! Why will you not let me see him?' the stranger cried, wringing her hands in anguish. The woman's eyes searched desperately away from the gate, as though she expected to see Athos somewhere in the garrison beyond.

'Give me a moment,' Porthos nodded to the waiting Du Bois. The young man hardly acknowledged the address, so fixed was his attention on the drama unfolding at the entrance.

Porthos strode over toward the pleading woman and, as he drew closer, he could make out she was in fact no more than a girl. The guards were trying to calm her; at least this time she had been luckier, both Musketeers on duty were old hands and offered no untoward comments on her request, though it did come as a surprise. Athos was one of the last men within the compound to have females asking for him at the gate. Now had it been Aramis...

'What's the problem?' Porthos asked Benoit, the older Musketeer on watch.

'This young lady is asking for Athos, she says it is imperative she speaks with him. I have told her he is currently indisposed, but she will not believe me.' The man was genuinely at a loss how to deal with the situation – Musketeers were not generally trained to deal with weeping women!

Porthos approached the confused girl, but she in turn shrank back as he loomed over her. He held up his hands in a show of submission and smiled.

'I am Porthos, Athos' friend, Mademoiselle. I am afraid it's true, Athos is in our infirmary, gravely ill. Perhaps I can help.' The girl gave a small cry, her hands flying to her mouth.

'So, it is true. How long has he been ill, did he even receive the note I delivered?' Her eyes were wide and full of hopelessness.

''E's been unconscious these last two days. I'm sorry, but I've not seen any note. Do you know who you gave it to?' But his question fell upon deaf ears, as the girl was no longer listening, and wringing her hands she turned away, muttering to herself.

'I am sorry Jacques, I can do no more.' With that, she turned and scurried off into the crowd. Porthos called after her but she did not turn or acknowledge his appeal.

Porthos stood alongside the two Musketeers and watched the girl disappear. She did not look like a street child, more like a girl in service, but to whom? Who would be asking after Athos? Porthos felt a growing unease – was there someone else out there in the city who knew of Athos' background, and more to the point, were they supposed to?

He looked back toward the waiting cadets. He wanted to talk with Aramis, but only Du Bois now awaited his attention, so he might as well get it over and done with, and then he could leave his task with a clear conscience.

'Sorry, Du Bois, I'm ready.' Dubois began to chuckle.

'I did not see Athos as a ladies' man.' The sneer on his face, let alone the implication of his remark was no way to begin a bout with the big Musketeer. Either he was stupid, or had no love of life.

'What's that supposed to mean?' Porthos growled.

'Nothing. It is just that Athos does not appear to show much interest in the fairer sex.' Du Bois deliberately let the statement lie, aware that the rest of the cadets were listening with undisguised interest.

Porthos seethed. He was quicker with his fists than repartee, but he could not let the innuendo stand – the man's comment could not have been further from the truth. Despite his own dislike of Milady de Winter, anyone seeing the two of them together could never draw any conclusion but the glaringly obvious, and if Athos never looked at another woman it was because he had good reason.

'You don't know just 'ow wrong you are,' was Porthos' reply, and something in his voice made the young cadet give a cheeky grin.

'Oh really, do tell.' He realised the big man would say no more, but he had heard enough; the inference had caught his imagination, and was definitely something he ought to pass on. He really did need to find a way to get out of the garrison.

Unfortunately for Du Bois, his attention was brutally returned to the matter in hand. Porthos was lifting him bodily into the air and, before he was truly aware of the sudden change in his situation, the cadet was being deposited in the dust with very little ceremony. He gave a loud groan, but his anger blossomed with the discovery of each new protesting muscle. He flew at the big man, ignoring the broad grin on his face – Athos would have shaken his head in disgust had he observed the young man's blazing fury.

The hothead butted Porthos in the stomach, but the giant hardly exhaled at the impact, the smile never leaving his face. He grasped the cadet around the waist and tipped him once more on to his backside. However, as much as he was enjoying Du Bois' humiliation, he really needed to be elsewhere, so realising that Du Bois had no intention of learning anything he had to teach him at this point, Porthos bought the bout to an end. When the headstrong recruit flew at him once more, Porthos simply landed a short sharp punch to his gut. Du Bois' eyes bulged, all the air leaving his body in one explosive breath. He fell to the floor and curled in a ball, clutching his stomach.

'When Athos' is better, you might ask 'im what you did wrong,' was all Porthos said, offering no hand to help the young man rise. After all, Du Bois did not see him as a gentleman, so why bother to extend such a courtesy – he deserved to grovel in the dirt. Without further comment, the Musketeer turned on his heel and strode off toward the infirmary, shouting over his shoulder as he went.

'Take a break and get refreshment from the refectory, Aramis will take you onto the trainin' field after luncheon.' With that, the cadets began to disperse, eager for a drink on such a hot day. It was interesting that none of them approached the man still groaning in the dirt, though he had now raised himself into a sitting position, the look upon his face thunderous.

ooOoo

Athos lay in darkness. Not an uncomfortable darkness, he felt no fear or concerns; this was not the suffocating experience of the tunnel, this was weightlessness – freedom.

Perhaps he was dead, but he did not think so. If he was, then it was nothing like the death he had expected – there was no fiery pit of eternal damnation, and this was enough for him to discount his demise, for he was quite sure hell awaited him with all its fury. As he debated his current state, something began to penetrate his senses. Into the silence seeped a cry, desolate and needing, a woman. This realisation created a sudden turmoil within his relaxed stupor. A woman, crying, needing... could it be?

He needed to go to her, to seek out the cause of her distress. That she needed him was obvious, how or why he did not know, he just understood he was wanted, understood he was required to leave this comfort behind and go to her aid. Again, the cry, this time more desperate than before. Athos tried to call out to her, to tell her he was here, that he was coming, but he heard no response from his own lips. Though his mind tried to connect to the woman, his body refused to participate.

As abruptly as it had begun, the voice ceased, but Athos was still troubled. The euphoria that had engulfed him not so long ago was now a thing of the past, and gradually he became aware of a dull throbbing, a heat that engulfed him. So, was this it, the inferno he had expected, the end he had anticipated, his long-awaited judgement? Perhaps that had been his final test, he had been needed and he had not attended. How he had wanted to, but he had failed, and the woman cried no more.

Yet perhaps he had it wrong, perhaps it was because he had wanted to help her, to go to her aid, after all that she had done, perhaps that was his sin. He could not deny it, indeed it was a wickedness he felt all too well, that she still called to him, despite the evil she had perpetrated. So, if this was indeed hell then he conceded defeat, he truly deserved eternal damnation. As the fire began to slowly consume him, Athos moaned. Perhaps this would be an end to his torment, though somehow he doubted this was how hell worked.

ooOoo

Porthos entered the infirmary, his mood troubled, not just by Du Bois' appalling remarks but by the distress of the girl at the gate. The first thing he saw was Aramis bent over Athos' prostrate form, calling his name. All thoughts of Du Bois and the girl were instantly relegated to a forgotten place.

'What's up?' He covered the short distance in seconds, peering down at Athos standing alongside his friend.

'He moaned,' Aramis cried with delight.

Porthos immediately felt lighter. ''E did?' They both stared intently at the silent Athos as though willing him to speak.

As if on cue, a murmur escaped from Athos' lips. The two men could not make out what he was saying, but they did not much care, he was talking and that was wonderful. As they smiled and slapped each other on the back, Athos' eyes flew open. 'Go... must… go…' The words were hardly audible as they wrenched themselves from his parched throat. He stared at the two men without any sign of recognition. A sudden attempt at movement made him cry out, the jarring of his injured hand sending painful shockwaves up his arm. His eyes rolled back into his head and he went limp.

'Athos!' Porthos cried.

Aramis automatically felt for his friend's pulse at his neck, 'He is alright, I believe he is merely sleeping now.'

'How can you tell?' Porthos demanded.

Looking contrite, Aramis pinched the inner flesh of the uninjured arm and the patient flinched.

'That's how,' Aramis said with a slightly guilty look, but Porthos offered no recriminations, just gave a loud guffaw and slapped the medic on the back.

'I will sit with 'im, you go and get some lunch, you are due to take the cadets on to the trainin' field this afternoon.' Aramis rolled his eyes.

'What was he trying to say?' the marksman asked.

Porthos shrugged his wide shoulders. 'I 'ave no idea, just fevered mutterin's. Doubt 'e meant anything.'

Aramis bit his lip and gazed at Porthos with a deep sadness in his dark eyes. 'He did not know us did he?' His earnest expression hit the big Musketeer with more force than Du Bois could ever muster.

'It's early, 'e was probably not really awake – next time, 'e will know us next time.' He gave Aramis a reassuring smile, though he, too, felt a deep chill in his bones. Nobody really knew how Athos would react to the heavy sleep; the man could still awake, but their friend could nevertheless be lost forever.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9

It was late September. The fields had been ploughed and the harvest safely gathered in; birds now flocked to the stubbled troughs picking at the remains of the summer crop, rising in clouds at any hint of interference, as they reaped their own harvest.

Once the colour of cornflowers, the autumn sky was gradually fading, along with the warmth of the sun. The first frost had visited the estate, a coat of sparkling white draping the landscape that morning, the air clear and crisp, the pale orb shining over a land cleansed and new. The audience watched in anticipation as the majesty of winter slowly stepped up to take centre stage, nodding as it passed, acknowledging the vibrancy of summer as she took her final encore.

The young master of the house had just turned sixteen, though there were no joyous entertainments planned, no thrum of celebration in the air. The only evidence of goodwill and warm regards had been shown below stairs – in secret – but the young man's delight was not destined to last.

Athos finally emerged from his father's study after another humiliating beating. His gift from the staff had been discovered, and his visit below stairs reviled and thrown in his face. How his father found out, he never discovered, though he had his suspicions that there were plenty of those amongst the household who knew how to make the most of what they knew.

He had done his best to conceal the present – in fact it had been only one of two gifts he had received. The buckle was a fine piece of craftwork; the cook's son was a master metal worker and had fashioned the piece featuring the de la Fère crest. It was not silver, but to Athos it was more precious than anything else he had ever been given, and the young Vicomte had been overwhelmed by their generosity. Though they rarely dared show it, the staff on the estate thought highly of their young master – despite his quiet ways, he registered their existence and showed a respect and appreciation for their efforts.

However, his father's sources were ever watchful, and though no outward favouritism was ever shown in his presence, any gesture of kindness always filtered back somehow, and it was Athos who bore the brunt of their allegiance. And so news of the gift had come to his attention, and his father had demanded said gift be handed over. But Athos, in an unusual show of defiance, had refused. The Comte had become apoplectic, and his son had received the thrashing of his life, but still he had not conceded the buckle, or its whereabouts. As he strode from his father's domain Athos headed for the stairs, banished to his room for the duration. However, a small smile quirked the corner of his mouth; he was determined to hold his head high, despite his discomfort, safe in the knowledge that his father may have given him a brutal beating, but he, Athos, had remained the victor.

After several long hours locked in his bedroom, without luncheon or supper, the young Athos had emerged to yet another monologue of abuse. At least this time it was not physical, but the attack on his self-esteem had taken a heavy blow. He had been told, yet again, that he was a poor inheritor of the de la Fère name and all it entailed, that he was weak and lacking in honour and backbone – everything that being of noble blood demanded. What was said after that Athos did not know, he had stopped listening. He was light-headed with hunger, his heart in his mouth awaiting the punishment he felt sure was just around the corner, but it never came. His father banished him from his sight and ordered the objurgated young man from the room.

Athos had practically run from the house, picking up speed as he tore through formal gardens and the lawns beyond. Late blooming flowers heads, still bent from the morning's hoare frost, nodded as he passed; air crisp, his lungs burning with the effort. Athos' booted feet slipped upon the icy ground, his breath billowing out before him as he sped toward the stables. So urgent was his need that he had not taken the time to snatch a coat before he left, but he hardly felt the clutch of icy air.

He had to see for himself, he had to see the horse was still there.

The boy had awoken with no expectation, he had learned that for him a birthday was just like any other day – a gift was usually bestowed, but without any pomp or ceremony. It was perhaps one of the only times in the year his mother would bestow a kiss upon his cheek, but this year she had remained in her room with some perceived aliment or other. So, with no sense of anticipation, he had followed his father to the stables. He had been stunned beyond belief when his father had given him his gift. The stallion was huge; Athos had not yet attained his full height, yet though he was almost as tall as his father, the black beast had towered over him. The horse had snorted with an arrogant superiority that should have terrified him, but it had not. Athos had approached the prancing animal and tentatively stroked his soft nose.

'You need to show him who is master, break him, make him your animal or you will never control him.' With that, and luckily for Athos and the horse, his father turned abruptly and left the stable yard; his job was done, gift given, obligation fulfilled.

'What is his name?' Athos asked the unfamiliar boy holding the stallion's reins – his appearance suggested he was not much older than Athos.

'Don't rightly know he has a name. Your father …' at this point the boy spat quite deliberately on the floor, flagrantly showing his dislike of the Comte, not caring what Athos thought of the gesture. '…he just bought him and said the horse was for his son.' The boy looked at Athos, his resentment glaringly obvious.

Athos ignored his insolence. It was not the first time he had seen the expression of antipathy upon the faces of villagers or staff, though he hated the assumption that his wealth and future title somehow made him different, a subject of hatred. He was not his father, and he hoped he would be a fairer and more just lord when his turn came, though he was not looking forward to that day.

So it was that he ran as fast as he could toward the stable that morning as it was unlike his father not to add to his humiliation by denying him something he had shown to care about or to enjoy. The Comte had dismissed his first-ever fencing master just because Athos had formed a bond with the young man. He had dismissed the local vicar and his family, because they had shown kindness to the boy on more than one occasion. Athos had long ceased to exhibit any emotion to anyone or anything at all, lest they, too, be banished from his life. And so he had readily expected the horse to be the latest victim of his father's cruel punishment – but perhaps he had not realised just how overjoyed Athos had been to receive the splendid animal. No more ponies, or docile mares, now he had a real horse, a man's horse, or so he hoped.

When he arrived breathless and shaking in the stable yard, he could not believe his eyes. There was the horse, stamping and chomping at the bit, froth flying from his curled lips, snorting smoke into the air like an angry dragon. A rope bit into his neck and the holder of that rope was giving him a severe thrashing with the whip – the boy from the previous morning who had shown such disrespect now struck the horse repeatedly. Blood showed upon the animal's proud neck and his eyes were wild with pain and fear.

Athos was enraged. The emotions he had hidden so deep, for so long, exacerbated by his father's poison as well as the fear of losing his most magnificent gift, had only added to his emotive state, driving him into a rare fury. He snatched the whip from the stable hand's grip and lashed out at the boy in anger. The first swipe caught him on the arm, but as the boy turned in surprise the second caught him full in the face. A cut opened up, reaching from his forehead to his chin, crossing his eye in the process. Before Athos could comprehend just what he had done, a voice rang out from behind him.

'Well done, boy, show him who is master. No one on my estate treats a horse like that.' Athos turned to find his father not more than twenty paces behind him, a malicious smile upon his face. He could think of no reason he should have followed him to the stables, but a cold fear clutched at his insides and as his father grew closer. He heard the stable hand cackle.

'Take a good look. This horse is for the knacker's yard – seems you've been a naughty boy.' The realisation hit Athos like a thunderbolt. His father had been coming to revel in the look upon Athos' face when he told him he was taking the horse away. Athos was consumed by a red mist, fed by a potent mixture of anger, humiliation, and defeat. He launched another attack on the sniggering servant, though his was not the face he saw before him as he struck.

Athos only stopped when his father removed the whip from his rigid fingers. The boy before him was holding a hand to his damaged face and spat blood at the pair of them.

'Like father, like son – pigs the pair of yer.' The boy did not wait to be dismissed, but simply turned away and loped off toward the trees, never to set foot upon the estate again.

Athos had stood trembling with horror at what he had done, but luckily for him, his father had interpreted it differently.

'At last, finally you show signs of the man I have been waiting to see. Well done. The peasant got what he deserved. You can keep the horse, perhaps you have earnt him after all.' He slapped Athos on the back and once again turned away toward the house.

Athos was completely shocked, not just by his actions towards the stable lad, but by the pride his father had shown in such outrageous abuse. Staggering toward the silent horse he buried his head in the soft mane and wept. If he had only known this was to be the first of many such occasions over the years, the boy would have wept harder.

ooOoo

The man skulked at the back of the tavern – the White Horse was not the type of establishment he would normally visit. Not just because it was close to the Musketeer barracks, and so normally full of soldiers, but the wine was decent and so more expensive. In addition, he was less likely to make a quick sou or two, compared to the opportunities which presented themselves in the less salubrious establishments. However, tonight was an exception, he had received word his contact wished to meet.

He drank from the cup of wine in front of him. It was good, far better than he was used to, and he was going to make sure the man he was about to encounter reimbursed him for his troubles. As he searched the crowded room he noted a group of cadets enter through the narrow door. Now they were usually good sport, raw and still easy targets if you could catch them in pairs, but tonight they formed a large group. As they found themselves seats, one of them moved away and locked eyes with him. He was of average height, with no particular features to recommend him, except the condescending arrogance resulting from his perceived noble birthright. The man spat on to the floor. Still, allies came from the oddest places – if this young upstart could help him achieve his aim after all these years, he would keep his resentments to himself.

'Are you Du Bois?' he mumbled as the young man approached.

'Beau?' the condescending cadet queried. How the man hated the nickname, but it was a reminder of the damage that had been done to him, a constant reminder of what he had lost thanks to de la Fères.

He nodded and gestured for the cadet to join him. 'This isn't the best place to meet, what if your friends notice?' Beau complained.

'I had no other way of leaving. It would have seemed odder if I had disappeared into the city on my own seeing as I am supposed not to know my way around.' He sneered at the man by his side as though he was an idiot.

Suddenly he felt a sharp prick in his side. 'Let me remind you how raw you are. We are sitting in a tavern in the dark drinking wine – for which you are paying by the way – and if I were to gut you like a fish right now, nobody would know until your friends decided to leave. That could be hours away, by which time you would be very dead, and they would simply think you could not hold your drink. So perhaps a little respect is in order. After all, without me, you would never even have known he was still alive.'

Du Bois' eyes flared with surprise and, in an effort to retain his dignity, he took a long gulp of his wine, nodding his head as he did so.

'So, what have you to tell me that is so important?' Beau asked.

'Someone came to see Athos, a girl, she was quite desperate. It was not the first time, she came before, during the evening. She gave one of the other Musketeers, Deveaux, a message. Porthos told her Athos was ill and she left. I do not know who she was.' Despite his cocky attitude earlier, Du Bois hoped the information was important; he was not sure he liked sitting in such close proximity to a man with a knife, who appeared far too eager to use it.

'A girl, what sort of girl?' Beau asked, curious.

'Just a girl, an ordinary...' He stopped, not sure what to say without raising the man's ire once more. That he had a dislike of nobility was evidently clear. '…a serving girl I would say, that is, a girl working in a household, not a street girl.' He hoped he had not made any kind of insult to women of this man's acquaintance, but it was the politest description he could think of.

'Is that all?' Beau scowled.

'Well, Porthos let something slip, I was not entirely sure what to make of it, but I received the impression there was another woman, I do not know who, but someone important. Whoever she is, Porthos did not look pleased.' This piece of information seemed to cheer the man up.

'No, I don't suppose he did, if it's the woman I've in mind. Still, she's dead and gone, but it will be a real sore point with Athos if you need to get under his skin.'

'Who was she?' Du Bois asked with genuine interest.

'You don't need to know, just find a way to irk him, it will be enough for now.' With that Beau stood and, draining his glass, he looked at the empty cup then back at Du Bois. 'Expensive stuff this was.' Was all he said.

Du Bois scowled but handed him a coin to keep him happy. Beau nodded and left. Du Bois considered what Beau had told him, not much to be honest. So there was a woman in Athos' past, and she was dead, and a sore point, but why? That was what he would aim to find out – perhaps his father would know.

ooOoo

Both Lemay and Treville were overjoyed to find Athos sleeping normally, though this in turn had brought on new drama as Athos was now aware of the pain and discomfort of his fever.

'How long has he been awake?' the doctor asked, his brow furrowed as he watched the man on the bed attempt to move, pushing the sheets away from his heated skin.

'A few hours, no more. He spoke a couple of words but then it appeared as though he became aware of the pain – he attempted to move his arm and it was too much. He passed out and has not awoken since and though he has mumbled in his sleep, we can not make out what he is saying.'

All eyes watched the young doctor to see how he would react to this information. To their surprise he smiled. 'That is encouraging. I assume he has not taken any fluid since then?' He looked to Aramis and the medic shook his head.

'If I am honest, I was afraid to wake him.' He slid a glance to Porthos, which did not go unnoticed by Treville.

'What is wrong? Is there something else?' He eyed the two Musketeers, waiting for one of them to answer. Aramis dropped his head, leaving Porthos to explain his brother's concern.

'When 'e awoke before, 'e didn't recognise us.' He, too, looked uncomfortable, but he stood straight and awaited the doctor's response like a man anticipating a firing squad.

Lemay frowned, then gave a gentle smile. 'Do not worry overly much at that, it sounds as though he may not have been fully awake. We shall see what happens now. I think it is time to encourage Monsieur Athos back to the real world, but first let us prepare something for him to drink.' The Musketeers were taken aback, but then Aramis moved swiftly into action; though he was concerned over Athos' state of mind, brewing a preparation of willow bark for the pain and fever at least gave him something to do.

When all was ready, Lemay nodded to Aramis. He had not forgotten the time he had attempted to awaken Athos from sleep before the Musketeer had known who he was – Athos had almost throttled him.

Aramis gave a small grin, acknowledging he, too, remembered the event. 'Athos, Athos, it is I, Aramis. Wake up, mon ami.' He gently shook Athos' shoulder, but did not stand too close. In his friend's present state, he was not totally convinced that he might not find himself on the end of his friend's defence reaction.

Athos frowned in his sleep but appeared as though he was listening. Aramis tried again. 'Athos, come, wake up, you need to take a draught, it will help you feel better.' For a few moments nothing appeared to happen, and the Musketeers' apprehension steadily grew, but Lemay did not look overly worried. Slowly, Athos' eyes began to flutter open, and he gazed at some fixed spot on the ceiling, not appearing to focus on anything in particular.

'Athos, it is Porthos, can you hear me?' The big man's deep voice seemed to bounce around the room in the stillness.

Athos still fixated on the same spot on the ceiling. Eventually he swallowed, then he spoke. 'All of Paris… can hear you… as always…' His voice sounded rough, but to the men standing at his bedside it was the most wonderful sound in the world.

'Huh, well you don't appear to be in a better mood after all that sleep,' Porthos muttered, though his eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

Athos turned his head toward the sound and gave the slightest twitch of his lips, though it quickly turned into more of a grimace. 'I have felt better,' was all he said before closing his eyes once more.

This galvanised all four men into action. 'Oh no, you cannot go back to sleep yet, you need to drink,' Aramis almost shouted. Porthos lifted Athos gently and Aramis held the cup for Athos to drink. He opened his eyes again and gave the cup a look that clearly showed his distaste, but he allowed Aramis to pour its contents into his mouth. He gave a small smile as the cup was removed.

'Never thought I would be glad to drink that,' said Athos, and with that he closed his eyes and fell back into a contented sleep.

The doctor looked at Aramis, who gave a sheepish smile and shrugged. 'It was quite strong.'

Porthos laughed. 'Perhaps when 'e awakens next time 'e will be a little more grateful.' Though he sounded put out, it was clear he was as delighted as everyone else that Athos knew who they were.

'Once the fever breaks, he should begin to heal. There is no sign of further infection in the wound so it can now be permanently closed and allowed to heal.' He eyed the cup Aramis still held. 'If that is as strong as I suspect it is, then now might be the best time to deal with it.' He laughed and went to wash his hands. 'Keep making him drink every couple of hours and, as soon as he is able, introduce broth. Unless you need me, I will call tomorrow evening to check on his progress. I bid you good day gentlemen.' Treville saw the doctor out and the two Musketeers grinned at one another over Athos' sleeping form.

In the early hours of the morning Athos' fever broke. His colouring became pale, but it was better than the unnatural flush brought on by his high temperature, and as dawn illuminated Paris in a golden glow, Athos awoke.

Porthos was fast asleep in a chair by his side, whilst Aramis lay on a bed not too far away. Athos smiled. He could feel a dull ache in his arm and, gingerly touched it with his left hand. For a moment his heart constricted in his chest – there was so much swaddling around his hand he thought the worst. Then he attempted to move his fingers, and the discomfort, though reassuring, made him realise the hand was still there. He closed his eyes for a moment in relief. The last few hours came back to him – the training, the pain – then there was nothing. He could guess the rest, as after all, this was hardly a new experience.

His head felt clear, but he could not help but think there was something he had forgotten, something he should be doing, but it would not come. Suddenly a familiar voice broke into his consciousness.

'Good morning, mon ami.' Aramis swung his legs over the edge of the bed and smiled at Athos. Porthos, hearing his friend's call, awoke with a start.

Athos eyed them both. 'Well I am glad I was in no danger.' His voice dripped with sarcasm, despite the raw sounding words. Both men laughed.

'I was only resting my eyes,' Porthos offered, scowling at Athos.

Athos raised a brow. 'Is that so? Good to know.'

He watched Aramis prepare more willow bark, and as the medic brought it to his lips Athos gave him a hard stare. 'Like last time?' Aramis looked as innocent as he could.

'It is merely willow bark, it will help the discomfort in your arm.' He held out the cup and, with Porthos' help, Athos was able to hold it in his good hand.

'Of course it is,' Athos drawled, but he drank anyway, and for Athos, he drank plenty. He caught his breath then fixed Aramis with a cold hard stare. 'Tell me.'

Aramis nodded, he hoped he could phrase his news in a way that would not upset his friend.

'The cut on your hand became infected.' He tried not to sound as though he was cross, but by the look on Athos' face he knew his friend realised he was not happy, but he made no comment. 'Your arm is swollen in consequence, but now the lesion is healing the swelling should soon reduce. The wound is at last free from infection and Lemay says he can see no internal damage, so it should be as good as new.' He grinned at Athos, who was watching him intently, looking for signs that the medic was lying. He was obviously contented with what he saw, for he merely nodded. Athos looked at the offending limb and tried to lift his arm. The action elicited a sharp hiss, but he raised it off the bed. The arm would not bend, and he frowned at his inability to flex it further.

'The wound is freshly stitched and the elbow still out of action, give it time Athos,' Aramis urged.

Athos sighed and smiled, 'So what have I missed?' He insisted on sitting up and, as he appeared much brighter, Aramis agreed.

'Well.' Aramis gave the question some consideration, and then he smiled. 'The King has a new initiative.' Athos groaned. 'Why does that fill me with dread?' He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Porthos laughed. 'Not only you my friend, the whole of the Louvre is on tenterhooks and the Cardinal is pacing his office in concern.'

Athos raised a brow and smiled. 'Really? It must have been rather radical.'

'You could say,' Aramis laughed. 'His Majesty has decided he needs new blood around him, he feels his ministers are out of touch with his needs. He is planning a new younger council to take France into the future.' He was no longer smiling and the look on Athos' face was one of incredulity.

'You mean he wants someone who will let him have his own way?' Athos drawled. 'Why? What did he ask for?' Both Musketeers laughed at their friend's insight.

'Oh, the usual, a navy, and extensions at Versailles.' Aramis shrugged, as though the requests were a mere trifle.

'Ah, yes, I can see why he was thwarted, the Cardinal must be furious.' Athos chuckled as he envisioned Richelieu's reaction, wincing at the same time. His eyes began to close, and he eyed the cup on the side with a wary glance.

'No, do not worry, mon ami, you are just naturally tired, I promise you it is not of my doing. Rest now and you will soon be back to full strength. Tonight I think we will risk some broth.' But before the medic had finished speaking, Athos was fast asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10

Treville stood before the King. Tension in the room thrummed like the string of a played harp, His Majesty's greeting alone setting the tone.

'Treville, you cannot bring any negativity with you this morning, I will not hear of it.' The King looked down from his platform, thrusting out his chin and daring the Musketeer Captain to defy his orders. Treville stared at him for a moment, with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. He hoped his sentiments were not obvious as he tried to reconcile the man pouting before him with the one who had stood by Athos' side when captured by Gaston's cronies; the very man who had toiled beside him and his men to help Athos escape from his trauma beneath the ground. How was it possible they could be one and the same man?

He mentally shook himself from such reverie. The King was, if nothing else, a very complex character; one moment he could speak like a King, the next act like a child in the midst of a tantrum – it was the way of the monarchy and all Treville could do was try and play the game. However, the King swiftly moved on, proving Treville's musings to be correct – he now beamed with joy, all thoughts of petulance forgotten, as only Louis could.

'I have dissolved my council,' the monarch announced proudly.

Treville looked to the Cardinal. The man was suddenly finding the ornate ceiling particularly fascinating, though the hands gripped in front of him, displayed knuckles white and rigid.

'Do you not think this is exciting Captain?' Louis asked, clapping his hands together in delight. Treville was at a loss. All he could envisage was the heap of potential disasters which might, and probably would, ensue, with no experienced men to inform and guide the King, tempering his most outlandish decisions.

Struggling to find the right response, he finally managed to force out a reply. 'I imagine it is, Sire.' Frantically he considered how much more he could add, aware that the Cardinal was now giving him his full attention. 'However…' Louis, who had turned toward the Cardinal to flaunt his satisfaction at Treville's response, now swivelled back toward his Captain, his mood threatening to darken yet again. '…I would be remiss in my job if I did not point out that our enemies may see this time of... change... as a potential period of weakness.' Richelieu perked up as Treville finished and turned his attention to Louis.

The King was silent, and Treville felt his heart drop to his boots as he awaited the petulant outburst his implications would surely invoke. The silence prevailed for what felt like a lifetime, then the King spoke. 'You are right, Treville, we must begin to make appointments straight away.' He turned to his First Minister. 'Cardinal, let us draw up a list, it is time to select those men of France who will help me pave our way to a stronger and more powerful presence in Europe.' With that, the King gathered a bemused Richelieu and exited the room. He paused in the doorway and turned to the stunned Captain. 'Well done, Treville, you have, as always given me sound advice. Good day.' Richelieu cast Treville a look of intense incredulity, before trailing after his King, leaving the Captain to work out how his words had been interpreted so ineptly and, more importantly, just what he had encouraged.

Richelieu paced backward and forward across the floor of his offices. He had spent several fraught hours with the King making a list of men whom the monarch considered fodder for a new council. As far as the Cardinal could discern, the eligibility for such a list consisted of how old they were – none to be over forty years of age, if they enjoyed hunting, or whether they were known associates of his brother – at least this last one had some element of logic. After what felt like a lifetime, the Cardinal's anxiety was rising exponentially with the growing list of candidates. Eventually, he had called an end to the meeting, promising the King he would make further enquiries about the men they had selected as swiftly as possible.

Now safely ensconced in his apartments, he paced back and forth around his spacious, if not bleak office. So fierce were his anger and frustration, that if he could have expelled steam from his ears and nostrils he would have done. Though he understood Treville's position, being put on the spot by the King was not an experience to be courted; it did not excuse the idiot. Surely after all of these years he might have considered his words more carefully. Deep inside, the First Minister was forced to acknowledge the Captain had made a sound point, but he also knew of long sufferance that the King heard only what he wanted to hear. Though the Musketeer Captain had believed he was warning Louis, attempting to raise the monarch's awareness of his potential vulnerability, the King had heard …You must hurry to make your new appointments, Sire – a different thing altogether. It was bad enough the King wished to make these changes at all – complete insanity – but to make them in haste was even more of a potential disaster. Richelieu needed time to find a way to thwart the King's plans.

And so it was that when his visitor arrived, his mind was elsewhere.

Even as the Baron entered the room, his appearance was one of agitation, eager for the interview to be over before it had even begun, whereas the Cardinal was still reeling from his session with the King, and his mind was consumed with calculating a variety of nefarious strategies.

'Your Grace, please forgive the intrusion.' The Baron patted his brow with a handkerchief. Though his staff would have called him a bully and a brute, in the presence of the First Minister he was reduced, like most men, to the coward that he really was. 'I have received news from my contact in the city. Unfortunately, the the man we hoped would confirm our suspicions is proving rather unco-operative.' Swallowing quickly, he continued, before the Cardinal could raise his voice in anger. 'He is old, and my associate believes that with further intervention he can obtain the information we seek. If you think it appropriate, I will instruct my man to continue.' The nervous noble swayed from foot to foot, awaiting the First Minister's reaction.

Richelieu eyed the diminutive man as though he had spied a rat. 'Whatever, Brousard, I have far more important matters of state to worry about, do what you see fit.' With that, he turned and renewed his unfocussed gaze out of the window. Brousard could not believe his luck and scurried from the room like the vermin the Cardinal had envisaged, merely glad to be out from the under the First Minister's chilling presence, and without the expected rebuke caused by his continued failure.

For his part, Richelieu hardly realised the man had withdrawn. 'Young men, for the love of God, what disaster will such associations bring down upon France. How can I be expected to avert catastrophe with men with whom I have no leverage?' He turned from the window just as the Spanish Ambassador exited the palace following his daily delivery of the diplomatic pouch. Richelieu stopped and noted the man's departure, and slowly a feral smile began to form on his scheming features. Finally, he felt the beginning of an idea creep out of the dark place from which it had formed and stretch toward the light.

'Bertrand, take an urgent message... To the Comte de Rochefort…'

ooOoo

There had been a chill in the air that morning, and the approach of autumn had hovered above the ground, swirling and dancing in excitement, and for the first time the early morning guards had seen their breath before them as they took their places by the garrison entrance.

Slowly, the day had gradually warmed, but the stifling heat appeared to have vanished in the night. Instead, dark clouds gathered, the threat of rain giving the sky a strange violet glow – a storm was coming.

Athos had slept well and, never known for being a well-behaved patient, he was now beginning to champ at the bit.

'I do not see why I cannot return to my room,' the swordsman growled, scowling at Aramis and Porthos, who stood either side of him as he sipped his broth.

Aramis eyed Porthos over Athos' head. 'Because we can't keep an eye on you properly if you are up there,' Porthos answered, his voice just as unhappy.

'Why, I am sure you will still hover over me every minute of the day wherever I am,' the swordsman muttered, glaring at Porthos, who as usual took no notice.

'You're welcome,' Porthos snapped. The argument would have gone on far longer Aramis was sure, but as Athos opened his mouth to speak, a commotion broke out in the courtyard. Angry voices echoed beyond the door and Aramis thought he heard the clashing of steel. Then the noise died away, but the two men's curiosity was peaked.

With Athos eating his broth, both men made their way over to the doorway to seek out the source of the disturbance. To their amazement, a group of Red Guards stood just inside the garrison, and facing them was a group of Musketeers. Neither party was apparently happy to see the other, with hands on the hilts of their swords, neither group wishing to break eye contact. They could hear Treville's voice, but could not see him from where they were standing.

'What are they doin' 'ere?' Porthos rumbled.

'I have no idea. They are not pulling their weapons,' Aramis replied, confused.

'Perhaps they are attempting to stare us to death,' a sarcastic voice replied over their shoulders.

The two Musketeers turned as one, staring open-mouthed at the man standing behind them, his expression superior, and daring them to reprimand him.

'That's why you're not in your room,' Porthos shouted, poking him in the shoulder. Athos shrugged his shoulders, and simply raised his brow.

'I have an injured hand, there is nothing wrong with my legs,' the swordsman pointed out. Aramis sighed – he knew when to give in.

'You may dress, but you will rest and do nothing, and I mean nothing stupid. Do you promise?' The medic eyed his friend earnestly.

Athos gave a condescending nod. 'Of course.'

'Let me 'ear you say it then,' Porthos added, only too aware of Athos' skill in obfuscation.

Athos showed no sign of annoyance, or in fact any emotion at all. 'I promise.'

Aramis smiled, but Porthos narrowed his eyes – that had been far too easy.

Athos walked back toward the bed slowly, his muscles not too happy after such a long period of inactivity. However, he was far stronger than he had expected to be, and he was determined not to show Aramis any sign of weakness that would cause him to change his mind; though the prospect of dressing one-handed proved to be slightly beyond him.

'You 'avin' problems?' Porthos grinned, unable to keep a note of satisfaction out of his voice. Athos looked up, his eyes glacial; any other man would have turned and run, but Porthos only chuckled. 'You only 'ave to ask if you want an 'and you know.' The big man was enjoying his friend's predicament far too much, and even Aramis had to give a smile as he observed the stubborn swordsman's struggle.

So taken up were they with Athos' fiery glare, that they did not hear the rapid approach of footsteps, and all three men were taken by surprised when the door to the infirmary was suddenly flung open, and even more surprised to see the old cook, Claude, standing in the entrance.

'Lie down, quick, you're unconscious, Captain's orders.' With that, he turned and fled the way he had come. The three Musketeers shared a quick glance before Athos swung his legs back upon the bed and Aramis threw the blanket over him, making sure the injured hand was on top, just in case. As the door was jerked open once more, Athos closed his eyes.

Giroux, the Red Guard Captain, entered the infirmary showing very little consideration for those within, Treville right behind him, face like thunder.

'Is this enough proof for you, Captain? Athos has been like this for the last four days, he is not the man you seek.' Treville stood next to the sleeping Musketeer, defying Giroux to doubt his words.

'So you say, Captain,' the man snarled, eyeing Aramis and Porthos with dislike. For a variety of reasons, both men were well known to him, their smug grins now acting like a red rag to a bull. 'Has he been alone at all?'

'Never. Not for a single moment,' Aramis added, arms crossed over his chest in defiance.'

Giroux stared at the three men a little longer. 'When he wakes, I am to be informed immediately, no delays, no tricks,' he sneered at the three men before turning on his heel and storming out of the room. No one spoke, but simply stared after the guard's retreating back.

'And what supposed crime have I committed now?' Athos drawled, as he opened his eyes and looked at his Captain.

Treville suddenly became aware of the conscious Athos, and frowning down at him he replied, 'Murder, apparently.'

Athos gave a snort. 'Well for once, I assume I have an alibi.' He looked from Porthos to Aramis, then back to the Captain.

'Let us hope so,' Treville answered, as he gazed once more at the exit of the guards from the garrison.

Minutes earlier.

'I want Athos, now!' the Captain of the guard had shouted, as he and his men approached the garrison gate.

Of course, it had to be Deveaux who was on duty with one of his acolytes. 'Certainly, Captain, but there might be a slight problem, he is in the infirmary ill.' He attempted to sound concerned for his fellow Musketeer, but the smirk on his face told a different story.

'We will see about that,' Giroux spat. He made to enter the garrison with his men, but even Deveaux had enough respect for his regiment to refuse the men entry without permission, and so an argument had ensued, in turn alerting the men standing around Athos' bed.

'What is going on down there?' came the angry yell from Treville. Giroux pushed past Deveaux and shouted up to his counterpart.

'I want Athos!' He stuck out his chin and dared Treville to defy him, which of course made not the slightest impression upon the Musketeer Captain.

'Do not enter my garrison and tell me what to do, Giroux.' Treville's voice was low and controlled as he came slowly down the steps from his office. 'Athos is ill, he has been in bed these last few days. Why do you want him?'

For the first time Giroux's eyes flickered with doubt. 'Days you say? Are you sure he could not have left the garrison?

'No,' was all Treville said.

'Well it matters not, there has been a murder, and I want to speak to him.' There was a sudden scuffle behind him, and the rest of his men pushed their way inside the gate.

'Stop where you are!' Treville shouted. The guards stopped in their tracks and, out of nowhere, a host of Musketeers grouped before them, barring any further advancement.

'This is my garrison, and you will not take another step!' the Captain yelled. He spotted Claude out of the corner of his eye and turned slightly to catch the elderly cook's attention. Though he spoke to Giroux he did not take his eyes away from the old Musketeer.

'Athos is asleep, he has not woken at all for several days, he is in a heavy sleep.' He emphasised the words and gave the old man the slightest nod that he knew he would understand. As Treville turned back to Giroux he saw the cook scuttle across the courtyard toward the infirmary, just as he had intended.

If you insist I will take you to him, but you must appreciate he is gravely ill and treat him accordingly.' He noted Claude emerge from the infirmary and turned to lead the way.

'It was a good thing you gave us warning,' Aramis observed, 'Athos was up and about to get dressed.'

Treville eyed Athos, who was looking thoughtful. 'Is he ready to get out of bed?' the Captain asked in surprise.

'Yes, he is,' growled Athos. Treville ignored him and turned to Aramis, but the medic merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

'He will be less trouble out of bed than in it,' Aramis stated trying to look serious.

'Pah!' Porthos scoffed. ''E's always trouble once he can move.' He eyed Athos, but the swordsman offered only the merest twitch of his lips.

'Well I think I may have a solution. Athos, when you are ready, my office.' With that, Treville turned abruptly and left the room.

The three remaining men looked at one another. 'Not sure I like the sound of that,' Aramis propounded.

Porthos simply chortled, spluttering as, slapping Athos on the back, he added, ''E knows you too well, my friend.'

Athos frowned. 'Well at least the Captain does not snore.' He glared at Porthos, wiping the broad grin off his friend's face.

'Guess you will be putting those boots on by yourself then,' the big man stated smugly.

Athos eyed his boots and frowned. He looked for Aramis, but the medic was suddenly off in a distant corner tidying herbs and objects away discretely. The swordsman bent down and clutched the top of the soft leather with his good hand. He managed to get his foot inside the opening, though the boot dangled annoyingly and refused to sit at the right angle. Beads of sweat sprouted upon his brow and his breathing became laboured, but still he would not ask for assistance. Porthos watched until he could take no more.

'You are the stubbornest man I 'ave ever known. Would it really kill you to ask for 'elp? As he talked, he bent down and yanked the boot on so hard he almost sent Athos reeling over backwards. With a little less force, he pulled on the other boot. Athos took a deep breath and gave a weak smile.

'Thank you,' was all he said, but the comment was rare and, even if it sounded somewhat begrudging, Porthos knew it was said in earnest.

Porthos attempted to make light of the moment. 'Must be your week to be popular anyway, what with girls and Red Guards clamourin' at the gate for you. Somethin' we should know?' The cheeky smile re-emerged, but Athos had paled.

There it was, the something he had forgotten, the voice, the woman who needed help, the woman he had failed.

'A girl?' he asked. He was standing now, no more than inches from Porthos, threatening to take hold of the big Musketeer if he did not answer him. 'Do you mean a child?'

Porthos shrugged but shook his head. 'No, not a child, about fifteen perhaps. No idea who she was, she came to the gateway two days ago, though I think that she might 'ave been before. She wanted to see you, but I told 'er you were ill.' Before he could utter another word, Athos interrupted.

'What did she say? Why did she want me?' His voice was harsh and the urgency in it unmistakeable.

Again, Porthos shook his head and threw his hands in the air. 'She wouldn't say, but she was upset. Went off mutterin' to herself, mumbled about someone called Jacques.' Athos was moving in an instant, but then he stopped. He remembered the two men watching him closely and slowed his actions. Athos knew these men well, he knew they were considering his every move. He picked up his jacket and turned to Porthos.

'Would you mind?' There was still a certain amount of sarcasm in his voice, but the expression he offered his friend gave no hint of the thoughts tumbling in his head. Porthos smiled and helped him on with his jacket and weapons belt.

'See, that didn't 'urt at all did it?' the Musketeer chuckled, happy to help.

'You have no idea,' Athos re-joined.

'Tell me, what will you two be doing whilst I am with the Captain… resting?' Athos demanded as he made for the doorway, speaking with all the haughty superiority they would have expected of him.

'I think I will take a turn with the cadets on the field, and you can come with me Porthos, now we know Treville will be baby-minding.' Aramis slapped the big man on the back and grinned up at Athos.

Athos did not bite, just quirked a brow. 'I wish you enjoyment.' Before he could exit the building Aramis called to him.

'Just one minute, this will help protect that arm and hand. It will throb mercilessly if you leave it hanging like that, and if you were to knock it …' he left the sentence unsaid, just grimaced.

Quickly and neatly, he placed Athos' arm in a black linen support and tied it off around his neck. 'Keep it in there whilst you are moving around, when you are sitting then you may remove it – and only then. Understood?' Athos nodded and smiled.

'Oh! And don't forget your promise,' Porthos added. Athos appeared puzzled for a second then recognition lit his face, and he gave a nod to Porthos too. With that, all three men exited the building and went their separate ways. Athos walked toward the stairs to the Captain's office, watching his friends take the turning that would lead them on to the Musketeer training field beyond. The sounds of shouts and clashing of steel could already be heard as the young recruits were being put through their paces. As soon as the two men were out of sight, Athos did an about-turn and marched toward the gate. Deveaux and his companion, who though relieved of their duty, were still lingering suspiciously at the entrance. The two men eyed Athos' departure with a strange expression of satisfaction, as though they had been waiting for him. Athos strode past, nodding to them as he went.

'Now that is what I call a quick recovery, I thought you were unconscious,' smirked the cocky Musketeer.

'Then I suggest you do not repeat the exercise Deveaux, you will overtire yourself.' With the retort still hanging in the air, Athos strode off into the darkening afternoon, soon to be lost from sight amongst the crowds in the market square. Deveaux spat on the floor as he watched Athos leave.

Searching the area, he found what he was looking for. 'You boy, come here.' He pulled a piece of paper and small stub of graphite from his pocket, and scribbling quickly he folded the note and thrust it at the grubby urchin. 'Take this to Captain Giroux of the Red Guard, and be quick. If you want your money, I will need proof of his receipt.' The boy scowled at the lack of immediate coin, but took the note and darted off amongst the mingling crowd. 'That will wipe that haughty smile off your face, you bastard,' Deveaux mumbled to himself, grinding his teeth together in anticipation of the mischief he had created.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11

Athos had not gone far when he realised that he may have overestimated his strength. The afternoon was growing dark, the sun having long gone into hiding, leaving only menacing clouds, swooping and billowing in the gloom up above.

Athos suddenly felt weary. His injured arm, now resting in a sling upon his chest, throbbed mercilessly; the willow bark he had drunk earlier no longer eased the pain he felt every time his booted feet connected with the ground. Still, he tried to make his legs move faster, for the hollow feeling inside had nothing to do with lack of sustenance and everything to do with the sense of apprehension growing with every minute he delayed.

He strode on, hat pulled down over his eyes. Though ever-watchful of his surroundings, the swordsman still preferred to keep his face hidden – what had started out as a necessity, was now a familiar habit. Of course, the fact he now wore the pauldron of a Musketeer, meant he was no longer as invisible as he would wish, but his fixed glacial expression ensured no sensible soul dared make contact with him, unless they had no choice.

Athos felt the first tentative drops of rain and frowned. Their impact grew heavier and soon he was being assaulted with large stinging pellets of water that soaked his hair in seconds. A gust of wind sprang up out of nowhere, accompanied by a deep rumbling from somewhere in the distance. Athos gave what passed as a smile – at least with weather like this nobody would bother to look his way.

ooOoo

Aramis and Porthos walked toward the field in companionable silence. It was Aramis that broke the quiet. 'Why did he do that?' he asked Porthos, frowning up at his friend.

'Do what?' Porthos answered, only half listening.

'Why did he ask you to help him put on his jacket and belt?' Aramis continued.

'Cause I told 'im struggling on 'is own was stupid,' Porthos smiled.

'Yes, but when has that made any difference?' the marksman persisted.

''E was in an 'urry.' As the words left Porthos' mouth he turned to look at Aramis, his expression darkening.

Both men reacted simultaneously; turning abruptly they headed back the way they had come, only this time they were almost running. 'He is probably tucked up with Treville going over some boring logistics,' Aramis offered, though he did not sound convinced.

''E 'ad better be,' the big man growled, his expression as menacing as the sky up above them.

Reaching the garrison courtyard both men halted, noting the Captain was just exiting his office. Treville gazed down at the two men and yelled impatiently, 'Where is Athos? I told him to come straight here.' Aramis and Porthos exchanged anxious glances. Treville was no fool and he realised something was not right. 'Is he with you?'

Aramis took a deep breath and, not for the first time, wondered why it always fell to him to break the bad news. 'No, the last we saw him he was headed to you. We went to the field to help with the cadets but…' He stopped and looked up at his Captain. Treville was marching toward them, with an expression that suggested Athos was at this moment eminently unpopular.

'Where is he?' the Captain asked, his voice low and definitely upset.

'We have no idea,' Aramis shrugged.

'Then why were you coming back so soon?' Treville queried, not convinced the two men were as innocent as they appeared.

''E asked me to 'elp 'im get dressed,' Porthos rumbled, his voice echoing the rapidly deteriorating weather. Treville scowled. He, too, knew Athos well enough to be suspicious of such a request. He quirked a brow and waited for them to continue. Whilst Aramis contemplated a suitable response, they were interrupted by the changing of the watch upon the gate. When Deveaux and his fellow Musketeer passed close by, Treville stopped them in their tracks.

'Have either of you seen Athos?' he asked. If Deveaux had considered saying anything sarky, the expression on his Captain's face was an excellent deterrent.

'Yes, Sir, he left the garrison a little while ago.' He did not need to say anything else. The look on his superior's face gave him a great deal of satisfaction – it was obvious that Athos' departure was not appreciated.

As the first large raindrops landed, Treville's eyes bored into the two Musketeers. 'Find him, bring him to me,' was all he said. Then, with a long last look at the gate, he stalked off toward his office. As Aramis and Porthos followed his gaze, they winced as the slamming of his office door rang out through the courtyard.

'That's done it,' the big man growled as he acknowledged Treville's display of temper. 'Athos, the bloody fool. Where do you suppose 'e's gone now?' Porthos muttered.

Aramis looked thoughtful. 'Something must have been important enough for him to have left the garrison against Treville's instructions.'

'You think?' Porthos drawled. 'Is 'e well enough to be walkin' about the city?' he asked, signs of growing concern now moderating his anger.

'No, he is not. It is one thing to dress and sit quietly in the Captain's office, but quite another to be stalking around Paris.' Aramis' mind's eye could clearly see a determined Athos striding through the rain-drenched streets of Paris. 'Because whatever has forced him to defy Treville, I doubt it is a gentle stroll. His body has still not recovered from its trauma, not to mention the pain he must be feeling from that arm, and to make matters worse, he has neither eaten nor drunk hardly at all in the last five days.' Aramis' voice rose as he listed all the reasons Athos should have remained behind to meekly do their bidding. 'We need to find him before he does something to undo all we have achieved – he is in no condition to go through that again.' Aramis ran his hands through his now damp hair, his face bleak, but Porthos merely ground his teeth together in anger.

'Neither am I. I'm goin' to bloody kill 'im!' With that, the big man strode toward the gate with Aramis running to catch up to him, and side-by-side they headed into the storm to find their recalcitrant friend before his own idiocy caught up with him.

'Where exactly are we going?' Aramis asked. Thunder rolled somewhere outside the city – it appeared the weather was no happier than they were.

Porthos' brow furrowed, and he slowed his pace as he considered the question. 'Somethin' made 'im change 'is mind. 'E was quite 'appy going off with Treville – well perhaps not 'appy, but content.'

'You are right. What were you saying to him?' Aramis asked, his expression suddenly hopeful.

'Me? I was moanin' about 'im tryin' to pull 'is boots on by 'imself. 'E was makin' a right mess of it.' Despite his dark mood, Porthos allowed his lip to curl ever so slightly at the memory.

'Yes, yes, I heard that part, but why did he listen, why did he not simply glare at you and struggle on? What did you say next? You were laughing about something. Try and think,' the marksman urged.

Porthos' frown deepened as he attempted to recall their conversation. Suddenly he smiled. 'That's right, I was teasin' 'im about the girl who came to the gate for 'im whilst 'e was bad. Told 'im what with her and Giroux 'e was gettin' popular. I was just tryin' to lighten the mood.' The two men stared at one another.

'What girl?' Aramis asked impatiently.

Porthos shrugged his massive shoulders. 'No idea, she never said. She asked for Athos, said she had left 'im a note. When I told 'er 'ow ill 'e was she went off pretty quickly, not 'appy either!' He looked baffled, but Aramis persisted.

'She must have said something else. I think it is fair to say Athos has not been seen with a girl for… well for as long as I have known him. I assume she was not a lady. Do you think he could have known her from before?' Aramis fired his questions as deftly as he fired his pistol.

Porthos shook his head. 'No, she was a simple girl, not much more than a child. I rather got the impression someone 'ad sent 'er – she didn't seem bothered that Athos was ill, only that it prevented 'er from seeing 'im.'

Aramis took the information in. 'That would make more sense.' Suddenly Porthos grinned.

'Jacques, she said somethin' about that was all she could do for Jacques.' 'E must 'ave sent 'er.' Beaming, he slapped Aramis on the back.

'Who is Jacques?' the puzzled marksman asked.

Porthos' smile instantly faded. 'No idea.' Both men came to an abrupt halt, looking around as if someone would suddenly point the way to a mystery man called Jacques.

'If only 'e wasn't so bloody secretive!' Porthos raged.

The rain was coming down in torrents, running off both men's hats and stirring the dried earth beneath them into rivers of mud. The thunder that had loitered on the periphery was now bellowing around the city like a drunken visitor from the country. Lightning flashed and the sudden boom overhead made the two men jump.

With the storm now making its presence felt in earnest, they found themselves standing outside The Wren tavern. Deliberating which direction to take, they noted with interest a Red Guard dash inside. Always suspicious of the regiment's behaviour, they turned their attention toward the favoured watering hole.

They did not have to wait long before the door opened once more, spewing out five guards in addition to the messenger, appearances suggesting Richelieu's men were eager to be on their way. Together, the soldiers raced toward their destination, and for reasons they could not readily identify, the two Musketeers followed in hot pursuit.

ooOoo

Athos went over what Porthos had told him once more. It had not been much, but it had been enough to set off a clamorous warning inside his head. He had no friends in Paris. He knew no one, apart from Monsieur René who had stabled Roger when he had first come to the city, and Jacques and Marie Beloir. The elderly couple had worked on his father's estate for many years, until finally, upon his death, they had decided to retire. Athos, the then Comte de la Fère, had given them a generous pension – which had probably seen his father spinning in his grave – and they had relocated to Paris to be closer to their son.

The son had died soon after, though how Athos could not remember. However, when he had closed up the house and left, he had sent what few items he wanted to where he could find them and close to hand to the Beloirs, with instructions to keep them safe, and not to mention his name unless they had no choice. It was the latter instruction that now had him hurrying through the rain, growing increasingly exhausted. Once again, Athos cursed his weakened state. With no idea what he would find when he arrived at the house, he realised this may not have been the wisest of decisions. Porthos' angry face loomed in his mind, and he felt the quirk at the corner of his mouth.

The streets and alleyways were deserted, everyone was indoors – even criminals would draw the line at coming out in such weather. So intense was the downpour, Athos struggled to see what was in front of him. Still, the regular flashes of light helped illuminate his way, and by the thinning out of the buildings on either side, it was obvious the outskirts of Paris grew closer. Crossing the river, he increased his pace; the residence of the elderly couple was nearby.

Stumbling over the uneven cobbles beneath his feet, pain rushed along his Athos' arm, flaming red and hot, and he let out a low groan. He had to admit he was glad of the cold rain as it hit his face; it was soothing and, though he knew that was probably not a good sign, he had more important things to worry about right now. Aramis would simply have to forgive him – again.

As the swordsman turned the corner of Rue de Pont, he stopped to take in the isolated spot. The road was not far from the Seine, but there were few residences, most of the buildings being empty warehouses. With the torrent of water hitting the swirling river, the fetid smell, generally contained, wafted through the air on every gust of wind.

There was not a soul to be seen. The house he was interested in was in darkness, but that meant nothing, it was the hairs on the back of his neck that told him all was not as it should be. Luckily, the weather meant there was no reason to creep around in the shadows, as there simply weren't any. The quick and blinding illumination from the storm was too rapid to identify his shape as he dashed across the open space, stopping in front of the Beloirs' wooden doorway. He waited for another boom of thunder and rapped hard upon the door – hopefully from inside they would be able to distinguish the knocking from the noise of the storm. No reply. When the next crash came, he knocked even louder, this time hammering with his fist. Still nothing, and every fibre of his being told him to kick in the door and stop wasting time. However, the Beloirs were old, and a bedraggled Musketeer bursting into their house in the middle of a storm may just hasten them on their way to an early grave.

Instead, Athos noted the small passageway to the side of the building and made his way around the back. Climbing over a small wall, the Musketeer stood before a smaller doorway, and to his horror this entrance was not even fully closed, let alone locked. With his heart beating so loudly it rivalled the noise of the storm, the swordsman pulled his weapon and pushed the door open with its point. Hinges groaned in reluctance, but that was the only noise apart from the incessant rain and rumbles from overhead. Controlling his breathing, Athos inched his way inside the building, silence his only greeting.

Leaving the door ajar, he moved cautiously around the pitch-black room, and then, with a sudden flash of lightning, he made out the shapes associated with a small kitchen. The swordsman had only visited twice, and on those occasions had confined himself to the room at the front of the house, apart from a brief sojourn into the bedroom to offer his regards to Marie, whose health had been poor, keeping her in bed.

It was not until he pushed open the door to a small passageway that his worst fears were realised. The smell was pungent, and it was an aroma he knew only too well. How impressive was his existence, he thought, when the presence of death was an all too familiar friend?

With less stealth he found his way to the doorway on his right; if memory served him well, this was the Beloirs' bedroom. Athos stood in the doorway, counting the heartbeats, waiting for the next flash of illumination. When it came, it showed a harrowing scene. The bedding was flung aside, and blood stained the sheets and the floor beside the bed. A broken glass lay discarded upon the floor, but there was no sign of a body.

Reluctantly, he turned away, and with heavy steps made his way to the next room – empty. With only one room left, the one he was most familiar with at the front of the house, Athos pushed open the door with his sword once more. As before, he needed to wait for the storm to aid his discovery, though the smell told him pretty much all he needed to know.

As the cold white light lit the scene, he felt he was watching the set of a stage. In the middle of the room was a chair, ropes dangling from the back and legs. The chair stood like an island amidst the remains of a dark liquid pool. The same liquid was spattered up the walls behind. Each wretched discovery was delivered in a series of flashes that made Athos close his eyes as if bombarded by a vicious assault.

It took him a moment to put the inevitable demise of the old couple to one side. With every opportunity afforded by the lightning, Athos searched the almost empty room. It was not there. His heart flipped as the reality hit. Was that the reason the Beloirs had been killed, for he was under no illusion the evidence suggested otherwise. As the storm raged, Athos felt his good hand shake, and holding it out before him he could almost see the guilt infused blood drip from his fingers as the weight of their deaths were added to his list of crimes.

The loud crack did not register instantly, for it echoed the sounds of the tempest outside, and only when the accompaniment of loud voices added to the cacophony did Athos raise his weapon and turn.

The man silhouetted in the doorway made a ghoulish sight; not because he was dripping in blood or bore any evidence of violence, no, it was the satisfied smirk upon his face that depicted the danger he represented.

'Athos, we meet again,' Giroux sneered.

The swordsman could only see the Guard Captain, but he knew from the sounds in the street outside he was not alone. Removing his arm gingerly from its sling, he raised his sword in readiness. It all became clear, the fuss between the Red Guard soldier and Treville, the accusation of murder. Of course, they would blame him. Still, there was a small glimmer of hope. Giroux had made no mention of Athos' true identity – was it possible he did not know?

Giroux waved his weapon at the wary Musketeer. 'I would come quietly if I were you.' Then the Captain cocked his head and added, 'But perhaps not too quietly.' With that, Giroux advanced. There was little room for the two men to manoeuvre, though Athos was happy fighting with his left hand, and he instinctively lifted his right to aid his balance.

Instantly, he realised his error. As the two swords clashed, he felt the tremors from the impact shoot through his tired body, sending shards of pain into the fingertips of his healing hand. Gritting his teeth, he twisted his sword around Giroux's and flicked the weapon into the air. The surprised Red Guard pulled his main gauche from his belt and moved from side to side with a relish that would have unnerved any other man. Realising sword play would only prolong the event, Athos sheathed his weapon and pulled out his own slip blade, the coveted knife of his brother Thomas. The two men circled one another. Giroux sprang forward, but Atos caught his arm and the two men stood face-to-face. Giroux brought his head down upon Athos' nose; pain flared, but it remained intact, despite bleeding freely.

After more thrusts and parries, the Musketeer knew his strength was failing – he had never anticipated dealing with a prolonged fight. Giroux may have been an idiot and a bully, but he was still captain of his regiment. As they moved further into the room another soldier managed to squeeze into the already tight space.

'I told you to stay outside,' Giroux growled. With three men now circling the room and a sword added to the mix, the situation was almost ridiculous. However, Athos took instant advantage of the few seconds the soldier had been distracted by his superior's remark, driving his blade through the man's shoulder. Giroux in turn tripped over his minion's prostrate form and the Musketeer bought the hilt of his weapon down heavily on the Captain's head. Giroux fell like a stone on top of the groaning soldier beneath him. Athos wasted no time – it would be a matter of seconds before the others realised what was going on and entered the room. If the occasion had not been so serious it would easily have turned into a farce.

Leaving the house by the way he had come, Athos leapt over the wall and ran along the passageway into the street behind the houses. With the cries of angry men ringing in his ears, along with the rumbling thunder, Athos ran. This was not the time to stand and fight, this was the time to simply make sure he could stand.

ooOoo

As Aramis and Porthos rounded the corner of the Rue de Pont, they watched with interest as the guards they had followed joined a small group who were already waiting. The men hovered in front of a small house, not far away; there was nothing to distinguish it from any other residential property, certainly not in these conditions.

They easily recognised the swaggering figure of Giroux as he spread his men out and gave them orders, but it was impossible to make out what he was saying, as they only had the light from the occasional flash of lightning to illuminate the scene before them.

'I 'ave a bad feelin' about this,' Porthos muttered, as his gaze raked over the assembled men.

'I must admit I would have felt better if Giroux himself had not been present. He does not usually sully himself with menial tasks, which means this is important to him for some reason,' Aramis responded. The two men exchanged worried glances before watching events play out beneath the flickering storm.

'What are they waitin' for?' Porthos grumbled. 'If it is Athos they are waitin' for, 'e is 'ardly goin' to walk up and ask if 'e can go in, now is 'e?' Even as the words left his mouth, the big Musketeer doubted the reality of his own words.

Aramis shook his head, oblivious to the rivulets of water that it sent down his face and neck. 'Perhaps he is already there.' He whispered the words as though he were talking only to himself, but Porthos heard and understood.

Suddenly, for no reason that they could see from their viewpoint, Giroux kicked in the door. No scream or shouting ensued, in fact there was nothing but silence. Then, between the rumble of thunder, they heard the faint but familiar clash of steel.

'Athos,' both men stated as one.

Dashing forward, they approached the surprised Red Guard – with seven men to two, the odds were not great.

'You sure this was a good plan?' Porthos grinned as he raised his sword.

Never one to back away from a fight, Aramis replied, 'Of course, this is Plan A. If I change my mind, I will let you know.'

The two men engaged the three guards nearest too them, and luckily the rest appeared to be torn between engaging the Musketeers and keeping appraised of the action inside the house. The distraction was working in the two men's favour but, just as a soldier stumbled away holding his leg, there was a cry from inside. Everyone froze for a second, before all the Red Guards suddenly moved as one, and Aramis and Porthos could only gaze in incredulity as the idiots attempted to all gain entrance at the same time. Eventually, somebody shouted something about the back door, and the two Musketeers wasted no more time watching the clowns in action.

'Plan B,' Aramis shouted as he began to run.

'Shame, I was rather enjoyin' Plan A,' the big man chuckled, entering the side alley at the same time as his friend.

They burst out into the parallel street ahead of the buffoons behind them, and looked left and right. 'Which way?' Porthos shouted.

'He cannot have much strength left,' Aramis replied, raising his voice above the crashing thunder. 'Surely he will head straight back to the garrison.' Without waiting to confirm the statement, both men raced off toward the river, and the quickest way back home, hoping that a tired, but safe, Athos would be there to scowl at them on their arrival.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12  
It is a harsh realisation for any man to discover he has no one. No one to turn to in a crisis, no one to provide a safe haven when there is nowhere left to go – no one to offer comfort when life is simply too hard to bear.  
As the rain found its way into new crevasses, Athos could not become any colder or wetter; though both his clothing and boots were of good quality, they could not fend off the violence of the storm. And so it was no surprise that, as Athos pushed on through the pain and exhaustion, heading for the only place he could think of, his thoughts turned to her. As always, the memories came unbidden. Right now, they were the last images he needed parading themselves spitefully through his mind – pictures of the life he had once had, the life he had so cruelly lost.  
Athos let out a low growl, anger slowly overtaking any pain or tiredness he had felt. What a fool he was, why did he allow such thoughts to torment him? He had made his decision long ago, he had abandoned all that he had, and he wanted it no more, but he knew it was neither the comfort, the privilege nor the wealth that he truly missed – it was love. Such a simple word, yet so powerful an emotion, encompassing so much; passion, lust, solace and simply companionship. Someone to care, someone to listen and someone to provide a light in the dark.  
If she were still in Paris would he have succumbed? Would he have sought her out now, a place of comfort and refuge? Would she even have offered it? Or would she have spurned him, laughed in his face, and turned him away?  
Athos wanted to scream, and howl at the moon in fury and frustration.   
Flinging the water away from his neck, his fingers lingered over the intricate design of the pauldron upon his shoulder. The memory of Treville clipping it in place in the presence of the King, and the pride on the older man’s face sent an arrow through his heart. Was he always destined to let his Captain down? He was the one man who had trusted him, taken a chance – without ties, without conditions. Then there were his brothers. He knew both Aramis and Porthos would lay down their lives for him. Right now, they were probably thinking of intricate ways to kill him, but deep down, he understood the bond they shared. His feet faltered. Should he have put his faith in them and returned to the garrison?   
Yet again he envisioned the Captain, and he knew the man would have no power over Giroux if the guard came for him after what had occurred that tonight. Athos had walked right into his trap, his very presence a confession to his connection with the Beloirs. Enough proof for Giroux to get his own way.  
He would contact Aramis and Porthos when the time was right. For the now, he was better, and they were safer, if he stayed on his own – a situation that was sadly all too familiar.  
ooOoo  
Despite the fact both men had run most of the way back to the garrison – evidenced by their shortness of breath and inability to speak – they failed to arrive much before an angry Giroux and his gang of moronic guards.  
They climbed the stairs two at a time, though their legs protested at this final effort. Their knock at the door was almost unnecessary, for as the Captain called for them to enter, he was already on his feet awaiting their entrance.  
Though Treville watched the two men enter, his eyes remained upon the door, awaiting a third. When Athos did not appear, there was a flicker of disappointment, but it vanished as quickly as it had begun.  
‘Where is he?’ was all the man said.  
Aramis, attempting to control his breathing, managed to gasp out a few words. ‘We lost him. Giroux was there. Tried to assist but he escaped, and we came straight here.’ Porthos, having had extra seconds to control himself, took up the story.  
‘We followed him to some ’ouse on the Rue de Pont, belonging to somebody called Jacques we think. There was a girl who came to the gate lookin’ for Athos whilst ’e was ill. I’d forgotten about ’er until today, but I mentioned it to Athos as ’e was preparin’ to come to you.’ Porthos looked as though he wished he had cut out his tongue right now, rather than having been the one responsible for Athos’ actions.  
‘You say Giroux was there. Did you see Athos?’ Treville barked, his mood darkening by the second.  
‘No, we did not see him exactly. We followed a group of Red Guards who hurtled out of The Wren in front of us, we had little else to go on, so we went after them. They led us to the house, and Giroux was waiting. We had not been there more than a couple of minutes when the Captain kicked in the door and began fighting with someone; we could only hear the clash of swords.’ Aramis stopped, rather hoping they could keep the following details out of the story, but knew it was unlikely.  
‘What did you do?’ Treville asked, his voice low and even.  
Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look, the latter risking a quick glance to the heavens before he began to speak. ‘Well, we though it best to help defend Athos, so we approached the men waiting outside.’  
‘Approached?’ Treville questioned, quirking his brow.  
Aramis sought to find the right words, but before he could dig them into a very deep hole, heavy boots thudded up the stairs, accompanied by several shouts from below.  
The Captain’s door shot inward, and a red-faced Giroux stood in the entrance, breathing heavily. Eyeing the two Musketeers before him, he pointed his finger. ‘You! You attacked my men tonight for no reason, now one of them is wounded and out of commission. I want your heads.’  
Dismissing the two men, but hardly pausing for breath, he growled out low and menacingly: ‘Where is he? Do not think you can hide him from me, Treville, I will tear this place apart until I find him. Unconscious indeed! He was not unconscious tonight when he injured one of my men and hit me...’ At this point he stopped, though the rest of his words were inferred. His face darkened with increased anger. ‘Where... is... he? Tell me, or I will order my men to pull this place apart until they find him.’ There was silence, just the sound of the drumming rain on the wooden roof, emphasising the pregnant pause.  
Treville drew himself up to his full height. He was by no means a tall man, but he cut an imposing figure when roused.  
‘This is my garrison, my regiment. You have no authority.’ The Captain let his words sink in before continuing. ‘Athos is not here, I gave him leave. He needed time to recover and he had personal business to attend to. So, if you make any move to enter any building under my control, I will instruct my men to treat you as hostile. Do I make myself clear, Captain?’ Treville had not shouted, but had kept his voice low, under control, and highly effective.  
‘On leave? You expect me to believe that? Only a few hours ago you told me he was unconscious. Now he is fit enough to be running around Paris attacking my guards.’ Giroux still did not back down, though he had lost a little of his bluster.  
‘Athos is a law unto himself at the best of times.’ Treville stated. ‘He insisted on getting out of bed – I never said he was fit enough to do so.’ He stared his opponent out. Giroux held his ground for a few seconds longer then turned to leave.  
‘I shall be stationing my men outside the garrison. I will know the minute he returns. I will have him this time, Treville.’ Wearing a smug grin, he wheeled around and stalked through the door, slamming it shut behind him.  
Treville stormed past the two expectant Musketeers and stood against the balustrade of his balcony. He watched as Giroux gathered up his man and left through the gates. Satisfied, he turned back to his office and turned on the two recalcitrant soldiers.  
‘Approached?’ was all he said, the fact he had chosen to remain on their side of the desk was a very bad sign.  
‘Indeed,’ was all Aramis said, desperately trying to describe events in as amiable a light as possible.  
‘Was that with your weapons sheathed, or not?’ Treville glowered.  
‘As I recall...’ Aramis began.  
‘Sheathed, definitely sheathed,’ Porthos interrupted. ‘But then they got all edgy, so we drew ours too.’  
Aramis turned to look at his friend with a mixture of admiration and pity.  
‘They got edgy. I wonder why that was. Could it have been something to do with the idiot inside fighting their Captain? Or the fact his two sidekicks suddenly approached out of the blue? Do you suppose they thought you were there for a friendly chat?’ His voice had grown considerably louder and he was now inches from the big man’s face, even if he had to look up, but somehow his stature did not diminish his impact.  
Both men knew better than to answer the questions; they were well aware the Captain considered them purely rhetorical. However, being labelled as Athos’ sidekicks was harsh – brothers, colleagues would have been fairer. Perhaps.  
Treville let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his thinning hair, a familiar gesture when the man was stressed. The good news was that he walked over to the shelf behind him and reached for three glasses.  
‘Sit down,’ he ordered pouring them all a drink. ‘So, if Athos escaped, which I am assuming he must have done, where has he gone? Do you know for a fact he is not here?’ The question startled the Musketeers and both men began to rise. ‘No, stay where you are.’ Treville strode from the small room and yelled from the balcony. ‘Gerrard, check the infirmary, the stables and Athos’ room, see if he is here.’  
With that, he returned to his chair and sat down, somewhat heavily.  
‘Is he in any state to be loose in Paris, let alone fighting?’ he asked Aramis.  
The medic shook his head. ‘Not at all. Apart from the infection and prolonged sleep, he has hardly eaten or drunk anything for days. The pain remedy will have worn off and if he has reopened that wound...’ He could not complete the sentence, but all three men knew what he was inferring.  
‘Bloody fool, what would make him hare off after a girl like that? It simply isn’t like him.’ The Captain queried.  
‘I do not think it had anything to do with the girl herself, it seems she may have been delivering a message from somebody called Jacques – presumably the person who lived in that house,’ Aramis clarified. At that, Gerrard knocked on the door.  
‘Sorry, Captain, Athos’ isn’t anywhere. Nobody has seen him since he left the garrison yesterday afternoon just before the storm.’ The older Musketeer was a good soldier, and all three men knew he would like to have given them better news.   
After the man had left, Treville stood up and looked from his window. ‘Well, what are you two waiting for? As of tomorrow, you are removed from duty. Insubordination and unauthorised violence. I do not want to see either of you for two days. Then report to me. Dismissed.’   
The two men grinned broadly. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ they replied, saluting simultaneously.  
Aramis and Porthos hurried from the office and down the stairs; they had underestimated the lateness of the hour, and how tired they had become.   
‘First thing, Rue de Pont?’ Porthos queried.  
‘Oh! I think so, don’t you?’ Aramis responded, with a spring in his step. They headed for their rooms and much needed sleep; though both men were wondering where Athos was at that precise moment.  
ooOoo  
If they could have seen him, they would have been both amused and worried in equal measure. After he had left the Beloirs’ he had headed for the only place in Paris where he knew he would be safe and dry for the night. So, as they settled within their rooms in the garrison, Athos curled amongst warm hay in the stables behind Monsieur René’s smithy.   
This was not the first time he had sought refuge there, and he hoped it was still owned by the man who had shown kindness to him in the past. Athos shivered again; somehow the wound had not been torn apart from his exertion. However, the vicious headbutt had procured a magnificent headache, though somehow his nose had remained unbroken. He could not prevent the ghost of a smile as he imagined Aramis’ response to this, though Athos had no doubt it would entail details of how his thick head had saved him from damage. However, it was not his ill luck that was his last thought before sleep overcame him, but images of the house on the Rue de Pont, and the horrors that had been perpetrated there.  
Athos slept badly – after all, he had done nothing but sleep for several days, and how much sleep could a man possibly need? He was up and out of the warm stable before the sun had even awoken from her slumber. He dipped his head in the water butt beside the stable and shook the chilly droplets from his hair. Combing his hands through the wet locks he pulled on his gloves and walked away from the safety of the Farrier’s.  
Despite the early hour, he was not the only person up and about – Paris came to life before the dawn chorus. Carts rumbled along the streets and milk churns and fresh produce made its way toward the market on Rue Mouffetard. With his collar pulled up and his hat brim over his eyes, Athos strode toward his destination. As he lost himself amongst hurrying merchants, the sea of traffic increased, and above, the morning horizon began to streak with pinks and golds, heralding the coming day. Beneath the early-rising Parisians’ feet, streets still ran with water following the recent storm, the rain having persisted throughout the night, along with the high winds. However, the thunder had moved off to harass other poor souls just as the swordsman had settled into his bed of hay.  
Athos was renowned for eating little, but right now even he was forced to admit to the light headedness brought about by lack of sustenance – a situation he would be forced to address soon. Despite the passing of the storm, the golden hue was marred by dark clouds splitting the virgin sky like angry slashes in the soft pink dawn. The air was cold, summer already a vague memory.  
The swordsman rounded the corner of Rue de Pont with far more caution than the last time he had visited. There was no evidence that the Red Guard still lingered around the entrance, but that did not mean they were not present. However, he had seen all he needed to see of the Beloirs’ residence; his dealings now were with the girl who had visited the garrison asking for him. Who she was he had no idea, but he surmised that the neighbours were a good place to start.   
Checking over his shoulder, he knocked upon the door to the left of the empty house. There was a pause before the door opened, and on the step was a youngish woman holding a small child on her hips.  
‘Forgive me, Madame, I am investigating the events that occurred at the Beloirs, in particular the whereabouts of a young girl, around sixteen years of age, who may have been a friend or relative, someone they may have trusted. She is in no trouble I assure you.’ Athos gave the women his most gracious greeting, this was not the time for hauteur.  
She eyed the man before her, noting the pauldron upon his shoulder. ‘Those damn guards have already been, rude they are.’ Looking Athos over once more, she decided she preferred dealing with the polite Musketeer.  
‘You mean Jeanette. She lives in the house that backs on to Jacques and Marie, poor souls.’ The woman crossed herself and then continued. ‘She would go to market for them, fetch and carry, you know. They were not getting any younger. ’Twas not right what happened to them, not right at all. They were God-fearing folk who never hurt anyone.’ She shivered and her eyes filled with tears. ‘You will get them, won’t you?’ She waited for Athos’ response, and though he hesitated, eventually he replied, quietly, but infusing the remark with sincerity.  
‘If it is within my power, I promise you I will deliver justice to those responsible.’ The woman smiled, satisfied with the Musketeer’s reply, though when she thought about it sometime later, she might have pondered on the personal inference. Having thanked the woman for her time, Athos once again took the passageway leading onto the parallel street behind the Beloirs’ house. It was easy to spot the residence he was looking for; there were pretty shutters on the outside of the upstairs windows, and it appeared the owners took care to make it look nice.  
After checking he was alone in the road apart from regular morning traffic, Athos approached the door. Before he could knock, the door was yanked inward and a young girl almost fell into his arms.  
‘Oh Monsieur, apologies, I had no idea you were standing there, forgive me.’ She took in the startled look on Athos’ face as he set the girl back on her feet. A slight blush covered her cheeks, and she gave him a shy smile. She was about to ask if she could help when realisation dawned. Eyes wide, her hands flew to her cheeks. ‘Monsieur Athos, is it really you?’  
Athos looked over his shoulder; it felt as though the girl had announced his presence to the entire street. However, the folk around them appeared oblivious and went about their business, showing no signs they were aware of Musketeer’s proximity. It was then he felt a tugging at his sleeve.  
‘Come, come inside. We should not be talking on the street.’ Apparently, she was as wary as he was, and she dragged him inside.  
The house was almost identical to the one in which the Beloirs had lived, and yet it was vastly different. A deep coloured rug covered the floor and a fire burnt low in the hearth, making the room warm after the early morning chill. The girl gestured to a comfortable chair by the fire.  
‘Please, Monsieur, sit. You have been ill, I was told, and you are still pale. Would you like something to eat and drink?’ Normally Athos would have declined, but right now it solved several of his problems in one go.  
‘That would be most kind, Mademoiselle,’ he replied, nobility dripping from every pore. The girl blushed again, before disappearing into the passageway Athos knew led to the kitchen.  
The girl had not been absent long when she reappeared carrying a tray laden with bread, cheese, and ham, as well as a cup of something fragrant and hot judging from the steam that rose from its brim.  
Noticing the suspicion upon his face, she chuckled. ‘Do not fear, it is a herbal preparation that my grandmother used to make when I was younger. It seemed I was often sick, or at least I liked to let her think so. Drink, it is quite wonderful.’  
Athos sipped the warm liquid and raised his brows. Indeed, it was soothing. It tasted strongly of blackcurrant, with a hint of something more interesting – brandy if he was not mistaken. Drinking deeply, he cut himself a wedge of cheese.  
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Mademoiselle. I must admit I neglected to eat before I started out this morning.’   
‘Please call me Jeanette,’ she replied. Then, much to Athos’ surprise, the girl leaned forward and reached for something near his face. Pulling a long length of straw from his hair she smiled. ‘Indeed, you must have been in a great hurry.’ She gave another throaty chuckle and sat back in the chair opposite.   
Now Athos often felt ancient, but he was in fact a young man by anyone’s standards. However, this girl was not much more than a child, and he was beginning to feel somewhat out of his depth.  
‘Are you alone Mad… Jeanette?’ The girl acknowledged the familiarity of her name upon the Musketeer’s lips with a shy smile.  
‘Indeed, my brother is an apprenticed clerk and leaves early each day. I take in sewing from a tailor in the city, so we manage together quite nicely.’ Her face became solemn. ‘But that is not why you are here is it, Monsieur?’ Her eyes swam with tears, one eventually finding its way down her pale cheek. ‘I tried to find you, Monsieur, I really did. I came twice, but they told me you were ill. Then it was all too late.’ At this she buried her face in her hands.  
Athos did not know if his fever was returning or if the girl’s distress was the cause of his sudden warmth. He reached out to offer a reassuring pat to her shoulder, but before he knew what was happening the girl was sobbing onto his chest. Gingerly, he held the girl whilst her crying subsided. The situation was not lost on him, and he was eminently glad Aramis and Porthos were absent right now – they would never have allowed him to live it down.   
Eventually, the girl’s sobs began to quiet, yet she appeared in no hurry to move. Gently, Athos pushed her away and with a little reluctance she removed herself to her chair.  
‘Forgive me, Monsieur, it was just so horrible.’ The look of sheer terror upon her face brought the reality home to Athos.  
‘Did you discover them – Jacques and Marie? Were you the first to arrive?’ Jeanette nodded, her eyes threatening to overflow once more.  
Athos produced a large square of linen, which the girl gratefully accepted. ‘Thank you. Yes, it was terrible. I visited most mornings to see to Marie, she struggles, you see, to prepare herself for the day. I have a key, and I let myself in by the back door. That morning it was hot, and there was a smell. I cannot describe why I felt the way I did, but I knew something was wrong. It was too quiet,’ she explained to Athos, and the swordsman nodded in understanding.   
‘First I went into Marie’s room.’ The girl stopped as she remembered the horrific scene. ‘She was just hanging there, half in the bed, half out… her throat...’ She was struggling to get the words out, but Athos knew what she was trying to say.  
‘I understand,’ was all he said. She gazed at him, grey eyes luminous and wide. Then, offering a wan smile, she continued.  
‘I did not even scream; my voice simply would not work. I stumbled from the room and into the front parlour. Then… then I saw Jacques.’ Jeanette shuddered and Athos rose from the table. Making his way into the kitchen, he fetched a glass of water and returned to the distressed girl.  
‘Here, drink this, take your time.’ She accepted the glass readily and sipped from its contents.  
‘Thank you. Jacques was tied to a chair, he was… hardly recognisable. Please, Monsieur, do not ask me to describe what I saw. He had been cruelly used. He was an old man…’ Once again she began to sob, only this time Athos rose to hold her close. Anger raced through him, anger for Marie, for Jacques and for this slip of a thing, who would forever see those gruesome images when she closed her eyes at night. Someone would pay, and pay dearly.  
The girl clung to him as she sobbed uncontrollably, whether for the murdered couple or for herself neither of them was certain, though either sentiment would have been understandable.  
Sitting the girl back down, Athos spoke softly, using a tone his brothers seldom heard, and his deep voice almost purred as he urged her to relax. She gazed up at him and seemed transfixed by his gaze.  
‘Jeanette, tell me, why did Jacques send you to find me in the first place?’ The traumatised soul looked somewhat puzzled before managing to regain some semblance of control.   
‘It was several days before… well before I found them. A man had knocked upon their door, late at night. Jacques did not say who it was, just that it was ill news for someone he knew. He gave me a note and told me to deliver it to Monsieur Athos at the Musketeer garrison. He said he would know what to do.’  
‘What happened then?’ Athos urged. Jeanette smiled a little, but a frown creased her young brow.  
‘The men there were not kind, they teased me and made rude comments. About you and I me – you understand?’ She blushed to the roots of her blonde hair but said no more. ‘They said they would pass the message on to you, and I did not know what else to say. So I left it with them. When you did not come, Jacques sent me again. I have no knowledge of any other visit from the stranger, but he was anxious, he was frightened.’ She looked wide-eyed at Athos. ‘So, I came again. This time I spoke to a big man, but he was kind and explained that you were indeed unwell and could not meet with me. I knew I had failed Jacques yet again, but what else could I do? Once again, I left. I should have done something more, should have insisted. You would have saved them, wouldn’t you?’ She looked at Athos with such reverence that he could find no reply.   
What could he say? Yes I would. Yes, if I had known or understood the threat, I would have sent them away? It was too late for such pointless reassurances.  
‘I cannot say, for I do not know what they were afraid of.’ The two of them said nothing but the girl continued to watch the Musketeer as though he would provide all the answers she sought.  
‘Tell me,’ Athos asked gently, ‘there was a chest in the front parlour which is no longer there. Do you know what happened to it?’ Jeanette smiled.  
‘I remember it. It was a lovely piece, old and quite valuable. Marie used to polish it all the time, but I never saw them open it. I thought perhaps it had belonged to their son, they were somehow reverent around it, if you know what I mean.’ She paused, thinking. ‘It is odd though, because I do not remember it being there the last time I spoke with them. Yes, it had definitely been removed, because there was a small table in its place and the room looked bigger. I did not like to mention it, you understand, in case it upset them. Was it important?’ Then she gasped, awe struck. ‘Is that why they were killed?’  
Athos immediately wanted to deny it, to say that the chest was immaterial, not the reason an old man and women were violently tortured and murdered. But he could not.  
‘I cannot say, Jeanette, but I intend to find out.’ He rose from the table, the girl rising with him.  
She walked him to the door and opened it slowly. As Athos turned to go, she reached up on tiptoe and placed a kiss to his cheek. ‘You will take care will you not? But if you find them, then I want you to kill them.’ Her expression hardened and there was a brief vision of the woman she would become.  
Bowing low as he took his leave, Athos breathed deeply, ‘I will,’ his only reply. Long after the handsome figure had disappeared, Jeanette stood in the doorway for some time. Then, with a winsome sigh, she took up her basket and left the house. Despite the terror of the last few days, she walked with a renewed vigour, a small smile playing around her petite mouth – how quickly the young could vanquish their foes.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 13

The night had not passed quickly enough for the two Musketeers. Aramis and Porthos were now huddled over in discussion eating a hasty breakfast, whilst Dubois, accompanied by a group of his fellow recruits, was seated at the adjacent table. It appeared that he had finally managed to gain their approval, for they were all enjoying the banter and camaraderie one would expect from a group of young men their age. However, it had not escaped the two Musketeers' attention that Dubois had one ear on their own conversation, edging his chair just a little closer every time they lowered their voices.

'We appear to be immensely popular this morning,' Aramis grinned, giving the slightest indication he was talking about the cadet sat behind them.

'Yeah, I'd noticed. Must be our sparklin' wit and personality,' chuckled Porthos. 'So, what's the plan?'

Frowning, Aramis dabbed at the corner of his mouth. 'You are doing it again. Why do I have to come up with the plan?' Despite feigning irritation, Porthos chuckled even harder at his petulant friend.

'I like to 'ear 'em, they are always so entertainin',' he replied. 'And they show such flair,' the big man added, smiling innocently.

The two men rose from their chairs and, attempting to appear hurt, Aramis continued, 'You do not ask me for my plan when Athos is here.'

'That's 'cause I don't 'ave to, 'e always 'as a plan,' Porthos said, scowling.

'But they do not have my flair,' Aramis beamed.

'No, they are carefully thought out, complicated and generally suicidal, and they 'ave a nasty 'abit of involvin' 'im goin' off on 'is own,' Porthos growled, though he could not hide the fondness in his eyes for their missing brother. 'Like now, only this time strike the carefully thought-out part.'

Aramis laughed, and together they left the warmth of the refectory. Outside, the chill hit them instantly, causing them both to shiver. Aramis was about to impart his plan, when a voice hailed them from behind.

'Aramis, wait!'

As the two men turned, they were somewhat surprised to observe Dubois hurrying after them.

'Is it true that Athos has disappeared?' the young man asked, trying not to sound too eager, and failing.

Porthos stepped forward, and Dubois took an answering one back. 'Why do you want to know?' the intimidating Musketeer ground out, using a tone that would have done Athos proud.

'I am sorry, I was concerned. I thought he was seriously ill. Sorry, I should not have asked.' The young man attempted to back away, but it seemed his feet had forgotten how.

'He is on leave, he needed to recuperate, and he hates the infirmary with a passion,' Aramis offered, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

'Oh, of course. Well, please tell him I asked. Give him my best wishes,' Dubois' response came out in a desperate rush. He took another look at Porthos and swallowed hard. Luckily, his limbs suddenly remembered how to co-operate once more, and he scurried away, putting his new-found mobility to good use.

As they strode toward the gate, Porthos voiced what was on both men's minds. 'What was all that about?'

Aramis shrugged his eloquent shoulders. 'No idea, perhaps he was genuinely interested.'

Porthos snorted. 'Nosy more like. I don't like 'im.'

Aramis glanced up at the big man; it was unusual for Porthos to take against anyone without a good reason, and it made the marksman pause for thought. He had to admit the young man did leave a lot of unanswered questions behind whenever they encountered him.

'Looks like we're goin' straight into winter and forgettin' about autumn,' Porthos grumbled pulling his cloak around him. As they passed through the gates and out into the city square, they noted the two Red Guards Giroux had stationed there. Both men were talking to a pair of pretty ladies, and did not notice them leave.

'They obviously weren't told to watch who left,' Porthos chuckled. 'And that's why they are all idiots,' the big man added, grinning.

He turned to Aramis, but the marksman waved his hand to forestall his question. 'We are going to find the girl.' Porthos quirked a brow and smiled at his brother's response.

'I never said a word,' he laughed. 'But I suppose she must 'ave some connection with the dead man if we are assumin' she came to Athos for 'elp.' Porthos talked as much to himself as to Aramis, simply voicing aloud what he suspected Aramis had been thinking.

'That is my plan. We talk to the neighbours and see if any of them can shed any light on events. Do you think it has flair?' Aramis beamed, ignoring the eye roll from the man at his side.

ooOoo

Athos did not go far, just far enough to reassure anyone watching that he had left the area.

Loitering in the recess of a dark alleyway, he considered his next move. Someone had come to see Jacques, what for he did not know – information possibly. Information about him? Athos had an uncomfortable feeling that was what Jacques had been trying to tell him – someone was looking for Athos. Or more accurately and far more disturbing, had they been looking for the absent Comte de le Fère?

The street maintained a steady flow of people, coming and going. Many of the warehouses in the district moved and received goods brought by the river traffic, ensuring a constant rumble of carts over the cold cobbles. Evidence of the sharp, early frost, that had cleansed the city before dawn, remained where the sun's feeble breath had failed to reach. Mostly the glistening coating had burned away in the weak morning sunlight, but where the cold shadows lay, it loitered on, a sharp reminder to those who lived and slept on the streets that the respite and safety of summer was long gone. Each year hundreds of poor wretches starved, or froze to death, on the harsh city streets. Athos assumed it was the same the world over, where the weather turned cold enough to freeze a man's blood where he lay.

He was not cold, but his arm throbbed. He had risked a look at the wound in the early hours and had breathed a sigh of relief; though a little pink, it was not the angry red that indicated infection. It was healing, but the unexpected exertion and lack of medicine had intensified the pain and caused it to bleed. Where he had contacted Giroux's pompous nose, his head still ached, but with no broken bones it would soon diminish. Athos concluded the only sensible course of action would be to enter the house once again. He needed to know what had become of his trunk.

The swordsman waited until there was a lull in the ebb and flow of traffic before slipping out into the street. It would make more sense to enter via the rear, though the Red Guard Captain could have set a watch at either entrance. Still, if he had to fight his way in, so be it, he could see no other option.

And so it was, whilst Athos forced open the door to the rear of the Beloirs' home, Aramis and Porthos were standing at the front of the unassuming house, deciding which door to begin with.

Having come to a decision, the two Musketeers knocked on the door and stood back to await a reply. When no answer was forthcoming, they stepped away, somewhat deflated.

'Never mind, we will try another,' Aramis stated. Despite his earlier conviction, he was beginning to wonder if his plan would bear fruit at all. They rapped loudly upon another door. This house was attached to the residence where the crime had taken place, and hopefully the occupants would be able to provide them with some clue. When the door eventually opened, the same woman who had earlier spoken to Athos stood before them, only this time, by the look of her, she was in the middle of baking, and she did not appear at all happy at being disturbed.

Aramis took off his hat and bowed, giving her his most charming smile. This did a little to soften her irritation, and she still glowered at the two men standing in the street outside her door.

'What do you want?' came her terse enquiry.

'Madame, we are sorry to interrupt your endeavours, but we are making enquiries about the events that befell your neighbours.'

'The Beloirs,' she replied, nodding. 'Do you Musketeers not talk to each other?' She added. 'I have already spoken to another of you only a couple of hours ago.'

Aramis was instantly alert. 'Really, was it an elderly man with a beard?' he asked, deliberately avoiding any similarity to his missing brother.

'Not at all. This one was young, dark, rather good looking and very polite. Though just a little aloof, if you know what I mean. Wasn't he one of yours?' she asked, looking somewhat nervous.

'Yes of course, you describe Monsieur Têtue, he is a Musketeer, but we have not had time to discuss each other's findings as yet. If it would not trouble you to repeat to us what you told him, we would be most grateful.'

Porthos was looking most uncomfortable and made a loud choking sound, which made the woman eye him suspiciously.

'Very well. He asked about a young girl who may have been known to the murdered couple. I sent him around to speak with Jeanette Arnoux. She lives at the back of the Beloirs' home. She looked out for them, fetched food and such like. I assume he went there next.' With one last look at Porthos, she pushed the door closed with a firm thud, followed by the unmistakable sound of a bolt being drawn.

Finally, Porthos let out a loud guffaw. 'Têtue? Really? Monsieur stubborn!' The big man wiped his eyes as his amusement overflowed. 'Oh how I would love to see Athos' face if he knocks on that door again.' He began to laugh once more slapping Aramis on the back.

The marksman smiled, though he appeared rather contrite. 'It was the first word I could think of,' he offered, throwing his arms wide.

'Perfect!' Porthos continued chortling, shaking his head at his friend. 'I simply can't imagine why.'

They arrived at the house belonging to Mademoiselle Arnoux, situated at rear of the elderly couple's property, and knocked upon the door, but there was no reply.

'I suppose it was too much to hope for. We will return again later. Though I suppose whilst we are here, we should take a look at the crime scene. Maybe it will provide us with some clue as to why Athos should be involved,' Aramis suggested. Porthos nodded, and together they headed back toward the alleyway, where they had spotted a side entrance to the rear yard.

ooOoo

Athos had been standing in the front parlour, trying to make out what looked different from his last visit, when he heard a distinctive roar of laughter. Part of him was not surprised; they were following the same lead he had done, though he would have liked a little longer to observe the house. It all went quiet, and as he peered through the window, he saw his two friends heading down the side alley. When there was no sound from the rear of the house, he concluded they had been sent to Jeanette's, but if she had left after he had, then they would not find her at home, so their next course of action would be to look in the Beloirs' house.

Athos gave a huff of frustration and went back to searching the walls of the sparse room. Just as Jeanette had pointed out, the trunk that had lain against the wall was now gone, a vase of dead flowers standing upon a small table having been left in its place. Puzzled, he gazed at the floor, as though expecting to find some clue leading to the whereabouts of the vanished piece of furniture. Sure enough, and much to his surprise, there on the floor were the almost invisible marks of scuffing; long, faint scratches to the wooden boards, as if something heavy had been dragged across them. Athos threw back the rug and traced his fingers along the tracks left upon the floor.

He was just about to reach the wall of the room, when the sound of booted feet approached the small space. Athos lifted his head and turned toward the door, just as Aramis and Porthos entered.

He raised a brow but offered no word of greeting. Both startled Musketeers looked at him in amazement., 'We've been lookin' for you,' Porthos growled.

Athos nodded, but still remained silent. Aramis took a more constructive approach. 'How is your arm?' He crouched down beside a frowning Athos and took the hand, now hanging free from its sling. 'I see you are using it,' the medic muttered in irritation.

'I was given little choice,' was the swordman's only reply.

'What's goin' on?' Porthos interrupted, cutting to the heart of the matter as usual. There was a great deal more he would like to have said, but he had to admit his curiosity was getting the better of him. Dealing with Athos' behaviour could wait.

'I am looking for something,' Athos offered, pulling his hand from Aramis' grasp and returning to the marks upon the floor. He tapped at the alcove and all three were surprised to hear the supposed brick wall ring hollow. Athos stood and knocked further up the wall – still no evidence of solid stone. Looking around, he picked up the wooden chair Jacques had been tied to. With a passing grimace he swung it with full force and smashed it into the wall.

'Whoa!' Porthos shouted, noting the gasp of agony as the chair made contact with the false panel. 'Why don't you let me do that?' Though it was not particularly solid, the tremor of the impact had sent pain vibrating up the swordsman's injured arm.

Athos hesitated for a moment before handing the chair over to Porthos with a nod of gratitude.

Aramis took the opportunity to seize Athos' hand, turning it over to see if there was fresh blood on the wrapping. The bleeding caused by his fight with the Guard Captain had now dried, and his sudden act of aggression had thankfully not caused the wound to re-open. 'I want to see that hand,' he stated emphatically. 'But first, pray tell me why are we demolishing the wall in the house of a murdered couple?'

Porthos had now broken a significantly large hole in the false wall, whilst Aramis and Athos stared at each other in a familiar battle of wills. Their deadlock was broken when Porthos suddenly ceased hammering the wall.

'I'm guessin' it has somethin' to do with this,' Porthos broke in, waving his hand over the large ornately carved chest hidden within the cavity. Without asking for permission, Porthos threw open the lid, allowing the weak morning light to illuminate the rich colours of the de le Fère crest.

Athos hung his head – not in fear or regret, but in relief that the contents of the chest were still safe.

Both Musketeers looked toward Athos for an explanation, their curiosity seriously piqued.

Of course, Athos offered no such clarification. 'I need to move it,' was all he said. Now three sets of eyes were trained upon the large chest, all as puzzled as the next.

'Can't we just empty it?' Porthos suggested hopefully.

Athos eyed the big man with a look of sufferance. 'You can see we cannot.'

'We could empty it then destroy it,' Aramis offered, not at all sure the suggestion would be positively received. 'Surely the contents could then be safely taken back to the garrison?'

Athos appeared frozen as he gazed at the chest. 'Very well, if it must be done, then let us do it quickly.' He walked toward the chest and dropped to his knees. He reached in and removed several folded garments and a pair of sturdy boots, rather too fine for the life of a soldier. Porthos glanced at Aramis but said nothing.

Athos secreted several parchments beneath his jacket, then reached for another object. It was small, and the sun caught it and sent a sparkle of light to reflect upon the wall. Again, he placed it inside his jacket. The last item, he withdrew and stared at for some time, finally casting it back inside the chest, then firmly closing the lid. 'Take it and burn it out back. I would be most grateful,' he added, his voice quiet and his expression blank.

Without question, the two men took up the ornate handles and carried the heavy chest into the empty yard. 'Once this takes hold we will need to be long gone,' Porthos pointed out.

Aramis acquiesced vaguely, whilst he appeared to be giving the object some consideration. 'If anyone comes to see what is amiss, they will simply find a burning chest, there is only the crest that can do him harm. We must make sure it is destroyed.' He looked up at Porthos, who nodded in understanding and disappeared back inside the house. When he returned, he was carrying an oil lamp. Aramis had the lid of the chest open and appeared mesmerised by the object he was holding – the one Athos had thrust back inside the empty chest.

Porthos peered over his shoulder and snorted in disgust. In his hand Aramis held a small double heart-shaped frame, fashioned in what appeared to be silver, and inside each aperture was a small portrait. Though neither couple were openly smiling, there was an obvious joy that emanated from their expressions. Their happiness had been caught and immortalised in a moment in time – Athos on the left, and Milady de Winter on the right – the loving husband and wife.

'Put it back where it belongs and let it burn,' Porthos growled. 'He does not want it.'

Aramis looked worried. 'What if it does not burn?' He shook his head sadly and held his hand out for the oil. 'I'll do it, go and see if he is ready to leave. Knock him out if necessary, but make sure he moves when this thing catches fire.' Porthos gave a cheeky grin and turned back toward the house, showing far more eagerness than was strictly necessary.

Scattering oil liberally over the inside of the chest, paying particular attention to the inside of the lid, Aramis stood back and lit the wick of the lamp, and when the light glowed and burned freely, he threw the object into the chest. With a loud whoosh the whole thing went up in a fountain of flame. He stood for a few seconds watching the vivid colours of the de le Fère crest peel and blacken, and when he was sure the job had been successful, he turned and joined the others in the doorway.

With Athos' possessions stowed in a borrowed bag, they exited the property and made their way into the busy street. Smoke was not unusual – Parisians often burnt rubbish at any time of the day or night – and only when someone realised which house hosted the inferno would they invariably go to check. By then, the three men would be long gone.

'A drink, I think,' Porthos announced. His companions nodded and they headed for the closest tavern.

They entered the unfamiliar inn. It was lunchtime and busy, river men and traders alike sitting at the various tables consuming steaming bowls of stew and plated pies. The aroma was intoxicating and Porthos radiated anticipation.

'Stew and ale all round,' he beamed as he approached an empty table toward the rear. There was no need to look for privacy – the noise in the establishment was so loud there was little chance of being overheard. Judging from the clientele, it appeared to be a tavern of worth, none of the folk sitting in the crowded room appearing to be in need or financial strife. Indeed, money flowed freely and the atmosphere was rather amiable.

When finally they were settled with bowls of inviting stew before them, plus a full jug of ale, Porthos spoke. 'So, what idiocy made you leave the garrison on your own this time?' He made no attempt to hide his annoyance, taking it out on the bread, as he tore off a chunk and thrust it into the rich gravy.

Athos remained silent, aware of the scrutiny from both brothers. 'Treville is somewhat upset,' Aramis added, this remark finally eliciting a deep sigh from their silent brother.

'And for that I am sorry,' Athos offered, his voice oozing remorse.

'Not for us then, the ones left to make your excuses, the ones rushing all over Paris lookin' for you,' Porthos continued to grumble.

Eventually, Athos lifted his head, and the look of sorrow in his green eyes made Porthos' anger vanish in an instant. 'What happened?' he asked, his deep voice now free of any further recrimination.

Athos took a deep breath and considered where to start. 'The day I left my estate, I was… somewhat distracted.'

The spring had been a glorious one; day after day, warm golden light had lit the surrounding pastures, as the fronds of grass swayed rhythmically in the gentle breeze, to a tune only they two could hear.

Together they had walked and lain in the soft meadow, filled with love and fuelled by passion. She danced in the spring sunshine, then lay beside him, forget-me-nots entwined in her dark, flowing hair, the tiny petals becoming entangled in his own dark curls as they locked together as one.

That fateful morning, he had sought an audience with her one final time. There was nothing more to be said, but he felt it his duty to see the arrangements were in place.

Despite what she had done, Athos could not allow her to be restrained in one of the normal hovels used to house criminals; he had seen to it that she had been a prisoner in her own room these last few days. To begin with, she had screamed his name continually, but then she had fallen silent. Nothing. Not a cry nor a plea for mercy.

Silence.

When he knocked upon her door, he heard her voice bid him enter. The beat of his heart quickened, though his hand lay frozen upon the handle. Slowly, he pushed open the door and faced her. There she stood, against the open window, hair flowing free around her shoulders, dressed in a simple white shift that moved and flattened against her shape in the soft breeze.

He had not been sure what to expect, but the silence that greeted him was not something he had envisaged. They stared at each other for what seemed like several minutes, though in reality must have only been seconds.

'I came to see… to see if you were ready. Would you like to change your mind and speak to a priest?' Athos asked, not able to break eye contact with his wife.

'What for? So he can urge me to save my soul, to beg forgiveness for my sins?' Her voice was laced with bitterness. She paused then continued, her voice now softer, almost void of any emotion at all. 'For what should I beg forgiveness? I have done nothing wrong.' Her voice rose a notch and she took a single step forward.

'Athos, I have done nothing wrong. I love you, with all of my heart, with my very soul. I had no choice. Why can you not believe me?' she beseeched him. Her hands were held out to him now – all he had to do was take a single step forward and he would be able to press his fingertips to hers. But he could not.

'He was my brother,' was all he could say, and that was stated so quietly it was almost impossible to hear.

'He attacked me, Athos, I had no choice!' She shouted the words this time, though she made no further attempt to come closer.

'And what about the lies, the thieving, the life you led before? Was that Thomas' fault too?' His blood was heating up in his veins now, and his eyes sparked with fire. 'Was it his fault that he did not trust you, that he guessed you were simply using me?' The couple had argued often, both volatile, both had a temper. Things had often been flung and voices raised, but they had always ended the same. Violent passion, entwined in one another's arms as though if they held each other hard enough, and long enough, they could force themselves to become one. The arguments had always been worth it, but not anymore.

'No, please, you do not understand. When I first saw you, yes I thought maybe there was something for me to gain.' Her voice trailed away. 'But it did not work out as I expected. I fell in love. It felt like nothing I had ever felt before, as though without you I could no longer exist, that everything before had simply been hollow and without purpose. You made me feel, Athos, really feel. I was not lying when I said I loved you. I am not lying now. I loved you then, I love you now, and whatever choice you make today, I will always love you. Even if I learn to hate us both because of it.

How prophetic those words would turn out to be.

Athos gazed at her lovely face – a face he had held, caressed, woken next to. When he spoke, his voice was a mixture of hurt and anger. 'I loved too, perhaps too hard and too much. I will not make that mistake again.' With that, he left the room, his heart beating so hard and so fast he could hardly hear her cries above the sound of it reverberating in his ears.

Leaving the house, she had maintained her silence. With her head held high and her hair trailing over her shoulders and down her back, she stood in the same simple shift, holding the wooden rail tight, as the cart had made its way toward the solitary tree upon the hill. René had positioned the wagon beneath the lower branch that stretched out across the meadow. Where once they had leant against its broad trunk and shared their desires, those dreams were now about to be destroyed – completely and utterly.

Athos sat astride his horse and watched as the rope was thrown over the bough's rough bark and placed around her slender white neck. In her hands she held a small bunch of flowers. He knew what they were even from this distance – her flower, the one he would forever associate with spring days and passion. He could watch no more. He saw the horse dart forward, and as he turned his head, he heard the sickening sound of the branch creak as it took her slight weight and throttled the life from her body.

He raced back to the manor like a man possessed. Striding from room to room until he came to his own, he flung the trappings of his fêted life from him and changed into the most serviceable clothes that he had. Throwing the possessions that meant the most to him into a trunk, he turned his back on his home, and a life that he could no longer look in the face. Every surface in every room seemed to sneer and remind him of his failure, and the portraits upon the walls were almost deafening in their judgement. He had taken up his grandfather's sword and slashed the painting that seared him the most. It had hung for only a matter of months, but the surrounding faces gladly watched its defacement with smug satisfaction.

He had then mounted his horse once more and rode hard and fast. To where he did not know, and did not care. He realised he no longer cared about anything at all.

Athos' stew had grown cold. The other two men were enthralled by the dreadful story he imparted to them, and when Athos stopped speaking, Aramis gently reminded him to conclude the tale. 'And the trunk?'

Athos did not acknowledge the question, but after several moments began to speak once more. He shook loose the past and stared at the two men.

'I knew Jacques and Marie – they had worked on the estate for years. When I inherited, I made sure they could retire in comfort, and they moved to Paris to be near their son. The son died soon after, but they stayed here in spite of that. I arranged for the trunk to be sent to them with a fee for their compliance. They were happy to store it for me, though they were instructed never to mention either its existence or its ownership to anyone. They were never to mention knowing me at all. Athos paused to drink from his cup.

'When I eventually rode into Paris, I made myself known to them and retrieved one or two items that I needed. I saw them once again just after the incident at the Queen's party. That was the last time – I have not seen them since that day. They were good people. I will find out who did this, and they will pay.'

The two Musketeers shivered. They were used to Athos' cold tone, but the way he stated his intention was beyond cold – it was without mercy, and rang as firm and final as any death knell.


End file.
